


Before the Wall

by Cinaja



Series: Legends of these lands [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOWAR, ACoTaR prequel, Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hybern, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Violence, Romance, Slow Burn, The Continent, The Court of Dreams, The Night Court, The time of the War, Young Inner Circle, acomaf, also, and have a major impact on the plot, but honestly this is far more mild than acotar so if you read that you should be fine, do I need to tag "Major character death", humans are getting respected in this, if the people who die are both still alive by the time of acotar?, slavery is shit, these people just deserve way more appreciation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 230,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24426283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaja/pseuds/Cinaja
Summary: Five hundred years before Feyre Archeron is born, the world is much different from the one she lives in. Humans are slaves, seen as little more than animals by the Fae who rule. But things are beginning to change. Talks of rebellion is spreading and on the Continent, some Fae territories begin to consider the potential gain of War. All it takes is one spark and everything will explode.In a few months, the War will begin. In seven years, the Wall will go up, permanently dividing humans and Fae. In those seven years, friendships will be formed, love will grow and die and the world will be forever changed.This is the story of the War, as is might have been. The main focus will be on Miryam, Drakon and Jurian, but the members of the Inner Circle will also play major roles. CANON COMPLIANT, multi-chapter
Relationships: Andromache/Morrigan (ACoTaR), Helion/The Lady of the Autumn Court (ACoTaR), Miryam/Drakon, Miryam/Jurian, Nephelle/Original Character(s)
Series: Legends of these lands [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776334
Comments: 56
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you`ll like this! Because I think the time of the War is just so fascinating and I really love Miryam, Drakon and Jurian, so I hope some other people will feel the same! Please tell me what you think, this is my first fanfiction here and I`d love some feedback.  
> The first part might be a bit slow because there are a few things I need to set up in the beginning, but there will be more action later. Rhys and the others have their first appearance in chapter 4. I have several chapters of this written out already, so for the beginning, I will likely be updating daily.
> 
> Warnings: This is the time of the War, so it isn`t pleasant, especially for the human. There will be mentions of (and only mentions, I won`t go into detail) violence, rape and stuff like that.  
> Disclaimer: The characters and world of ACOTAR belong to Sarah J. Maas.

# Before the Wall

## Chapter 1

They say there is no crueler place to be born human than the Black Land.

Of course, Miryam isn't entirely human. Her father was Fae – not that is matters, with her not even knowing his name. Not that she`d want to. All she heard about him is that he forced himself on her mother, which means that he`s just as bad as every other Fae. Besides, all that her mixed heritage ever got her was the scorn of the other slaves. Like her pointed ears would ever change anything about the brand on her right forearm, marking her a slave for eternity. Like it gives her a drop of power, a bit of protection against the monsters who rule this world.

So no, Miryam doesn't consider herself Fae at all.

There is no chance of escape, that's what everyone says, but Miryam still dreams of freedom. She imagines running away while she serves dinner to the lord who owns her, owns her mother. She dreams of leaving the desert behind and living in freedom while her mother, who looks after the lord's children, teaches her how to read. One day, she will escape. She will be free.

But then, Ravenia visits and everything changes. The Queen of the Black Land, the most powerful person in the world. Miryam is once again called in to serve dinner (the lord has taken a liking to her, that`s what the other slaves whisper). And somehow, through a cruel trick of fate, Ravenia notices her. It takes one offhanded comment about her skill and her owner offers her to the Queen as a gift.

It is a death sentence.

Ravenia only takes children as her personal slaves, so at age thirteen, Miryam fits perfectly. They say that none of Ravenias slaves ever last more than three months, that the average is three weeks. Miryam swears to herself that she will not die. She will survive.

She does.

Life at the capital is crueler than anything she could ever have imagined (and she knows a lot about cruelity by then). Ravenia's court is full of Fae who enjoy nothing more than preying on the slaves, and a human life is worth less than nothing.

But Miryam can read people, knows their tells. She knows how to pretend, how to make herself look scared when she is angry and how to become invisible. She watches and teaches herself Continental Politics, all the rules (thirty ways to greet each other, each holding a different meaning). All around her, humans are being butchered, but Miryam survives. And still, she dreams.

Until everything changes.

Miryam has been in the capital for a year, longer than any other slave ever lasted. Ravenia once again attends one of the Sacrifices and as one of her personal slaves, Miryam has to come along (Sacrifices. Miryam hates the name. They are mass murderings. Humans being butchered like animals, their life force used by witches or witchers to fuel their spells). This time, the Sacrifice is led by Artax, the head of the Guild - and the cruelest of them all.

Miryam stand next to Ravenia's throne, keeping careful watch of everything, as the humans are brought in, as they are made to stand in the middle of the room. Artax draws a circle around them, writes symbols on the ground in the language of the witches that none but them are allowed to learn.

She recognises her mother among the humans the same moment that Artax finishes his circle. The world stands still as they stare at each other. Miryam takes a step forward, all caution forgotten, but her mother shakes her head, ever so softly

She stands frozen as Artax begins chanting, as the circle begins glowing, brighter and brighter. As magic fills the air.

Everyone inside the circle burns in a single flame. Nothing but ash remain behind.

They say that when a witch uses your life force for a spell, it destroys your soul. They say that there is no afterlife for those who die this way.

Miryam doesn't know how she gets through the evening. With steady hands, she refills Ravenia`s goblet, again and again. But somehow, Artax must have noticed that something was off. Because once the feast is done, he takes her aside. And because Miryam is a slave, worth less than the dirt beneath his shoes, there is nothing she can do to refuse

Afterwards, Miryam spends the entire night eyeing the knife lying discarded on the ground next to him. She considers slitting his throat (or maybe her own).

She doesn't.

But that night, a vital part of her dies. She stops dreaming of a better life. Stops hoping.

Still, she keeps surviving. She gets better at playing the games of Court. Each mistake means a new scar, but after a while, she can read her masters as easily as any text. Ravenia begins to favour her (being favoured by the Queen of the Black Land, Miryam learns, is the cruelest of fates).

Two years pass

Then, Queen Ravenia gets engaged to Prince Drakon of Erithia

Listening to court gossip in the following days, Miryam learns a lot about him. By now, she has made eavesdropping into an artform. Apparently, his father rules Erithia (his title is also Prince, although he is the ruler, while Drakon stands as much of a chance of ever inheriting the title as the prince's horse, a Fae noble scoffs).

"He's a dreamer", Artax sneers. When he says dreamer, it sounds like he means fool - and really, in this place, there is no difference. But Ravenia desires him for whatever reasons of her own and his father agreed, so they will be married.

Drakon arrives two weeks later for a big celebration in honour of the engagement. He looks miserable.

It takes Miryam five minutes to understand why his father won't ever name him his successor. Drakon is hopeless at politics. He mixes up the phrases and bows two inches too deep when he greets Ravenia. Were he human, he would have been executed on the spot for the embarrassment.

Miryam serves the head table, as she always does. And Drakon stares at her like he's never seen a half Fae before (to be fair, he watches all of the slaves with something like horror written all over his face and Miryam just happens to be the one closest to him). Once, he is so caught up in staring at the scars covering her hands that he misses one of Ravenia's questions. Miryam wants to shake him. The fool will get her killed

After an hour, the Queen has enough. "My love", she says, "you seem awfully interested in the trash today"

Drakon flinches (Miryam does, too, but she hides it better) "She is a good..." The Prince hesitates. "Servant."

Ravenia smiles and it takes all of Miryam's self-control to keep from shaking. "Then keep her. As a gift, in celebration of our union."

And just like that, Miryam changes owners.

She is escorted to his rooms. After all these years, she knows enough about Fae to know what that means. They are all monsters, even the nicer ones. This is it. The end.

Drakon arrives after five hours (five hours that Miryam spends crouched on the ground, fighting her panic). He leans against the closed door. Stares at her. Miryam stares back, openly enough that she expects to be punished immediately

Instead, Drakon says: "I won't hurt you." When Miryam doesn't reply runs a hand through his dark hair and adds: "I don't own slaves. The very concept of slavery is abhorrent. Like a person could ever be own another. All those books justifying it by claiming humans are soulless aren't worth the paper they are written on, they..." He trails off, looking a bit helpless.

Miryam laughs.

It should have been her death sentence, but Drakon just watches her carefully, so she says: "And _you_ mean to marry Queen Ravenia?"

"I'm a Prince. It is my duty to my kingdom, to my people." He shrugs. "And who knows. Maybe I'll be able to change her."

Miryam laughs again at that. It sounds shrill, mad (she doesn't know when she laughed for the last time and she is scared, so very scared)

"You truly are a fool", she says, "Change her? Did you not understand anything? She is a monster, her entire Court is full of monsters. This" she draws up her skirt, little more than scraps of silk, to let him see the scars covering her body, "is what they do. And if you marry her, you will be little more than a slave as well. She will use you, either for her own pleasure or to gain control over your lands. If you think anything else will happen, you are the biggest fool to ever walk this earth"

For a long while, neither of them says a word. Finally, Drakon steps forward. Miryam flinches back. "This is it", she thinks, "Now he kills me."

But the Prince just grabs her arm. Darkness surrounds them, wind whips at Miryams` thin clothes. When they emerge again, they stand in the desert. The sand is still hot under her bare feet, but the air is chilly enough that she shivers.

Wordlessly, Drakon hands her his jacket. Then a pouch, gold coins clinking within, and a knife, its blade glinting like lightning.

"I can't take you any further", he says. When Miryam doesn't move, he gently takes her by the arm. "You are free. Leave this country, go north. If you follow the north star, the brightest one in the sky, you will reach the human territories eventually."

Still, Miryam can't move. "Why", she whispers.

"Like I said. I don't own slaves."

Miryam shakes her head. This is impossible. "I... You..."

Drakon smiles. "I'm in your debt. For saying what I needed to hear. You gave me courage." He bows to her and vanishes without another word.

Miryam stares after him. This must be a dream. She will wake up any moment. But she doesn't.

Looking back, she almost thinks she can see the lights of Ravenia's palace glinting in the dark. She imagines she can hear the scrams of her people, the sound of a whip. She takes out Drakon's knife and draws it over her hand. Blood wells up and drops into the hot sand before her feet.

"I won't forget you", Miryam whispers towards the slaves she leaves behind, "I won't ever forget you and one day, I will return to free you. I swear it."

Then she turns away from the palace. The north star is glowing brightly in the sky. Miryam starts walking


	2. Chapter 2

## Chapter 2

When Miryam dreamt of running, she always imagined that getting out of the palace would be the hard part and everything after that would be easy. Now, she learns that she was wrong.

So, so wrong.

The desert is hell. Burning hot during the day, biting cold at night. And Miryam never learned how to find shelter, food or water. Cauldron, especially the water. Then, there are the beasts that prowl the sand, hunting for anyone stupid enough to leave the main routes. Miryam stops counting the times she almost gets eaten somewhere around fifteen.

Honestly, she has no idea how she makes it to the small town at the edge of the desert. Half-starved and sore, she arrives and, for the first time in her life, sees the ocean.

For a few seconds, she just stands and stares, awestruck. She escaped almost a month ago now, but this is the first time she truly realises it. She is free. She still can't quite wrap her mind around it.

Crossing the ocean is another matter entirely. There are boats, of course, but the village is full of Fae and it anyone with eyes will notice that Miryam is part human. They are still in the Black Land – being half-breed usually means being a slave and if anyone decides to check, it will take one look at her brand and she will be returned to Ravenia. (She has seen what is done to those who try to run, punishments drawn out over weeks).

Miryam spends two weeks scouting the harbour until she finds the courage to approach one of the ships. There is no hiding her human heritage, so she keeps her head down as she walks towards the pier.

Still, a soldier steps into her way, grabs her arm. "Going somewhere, half-breed?"

"I just - ", Miryam begins, but someone else interrupts.

"That's my daughter you're insulting." A middle-aged Fae female steps between them. Miryam only barely manages to hide her surprise.

The soldier mutters an apology and waves them on towards the boat. Caught between fear and relief, Miryam follows her. They get on the boat and into a small cabin and no one so much as looks at her. Not when her companion is so obviously Fae.

Only when the door closes behind them does her saviour turn towards Miryam. "Did you know", the female says, "that they are searching the entire town for some runaway slave? Half-Fae, sixteen years old. Apparently, she ruined the Queen's engagement. Her Majesty offers quite the reward for her head. You wouldn't know anyone who fits this description, would you?"

Miryam is tired and scared and not inclined to play games at all. "Why?", she asks, "Why help me? I am nothing to you."

"Why?" The Fae shakes her head. "You truly think that all Fae are monsters, don't you?"

Miryam stiffens, suddenly feeling colder than the desert at night. All these images flash through her mind, all the blood and suffering. "Yes", she says, "All of them."

Something like sadness glimmers in the female's eyes, but Miryam just turns away. She is so very tired of always bowing, kneeling and of being helpless and scared.

The Fae female still lets her stay in the small cabin. She introduces herself as Kamona, a healer on her way from the Black Land to Montesere.

During the three-week-journey, she doesn't force any conversation on Miryam (She doesn't know if she could have spoken if she wanted to. With every day that passes, she begins to realize that she spent so much time just surviving that she has no idea how to live anymore. No idea how to regain the hope she lost the night her mother died). Still, she watches Kamona as she looks through her supplies. The healer talks about the ingredients as she does (Miryam is half sure it is for her sake).

They arrive in Montesere and Kamona takes Miryam to some local inn. There, the Fae glare at her as they whisper about the rebellion brewing in the north. Humans fighting Fae. Humans defeating Fae.

And suddenly, Miryam has a destination.

Kamona nudges her. "You know", she says, "I was travelling north as well. Join me for some of the way and I'll teach you what I know. I'm sure those rebels will have use for a healer."

Miryam nods, mostly because Montesere is another country where humans are slaves as well as an ally to the Black Land and she is forever marked as its Queen's property. Staying with a Fae is the best protection she can get.

They travel from village to village on the horses Ramona bought. In each village, there are more whispers of rebellion. But towards the end of the first week, there is another story. One from the south.

They talk of Ravenia of the Black Land, whose fiancé broke off the engagement. They say that she had his entire family murdered in her rage, leaving only Prince Drakon alive so that he might live to suffer the consequences of his insolence. And then they talk of the slave Ravenia didn't manage to catch, even though she had her soldiers search every town for her.

Miryam is shaking so badly that Kamona has to lead her out of the inn. The brand on her arm seems to burn, she barely makes it outside until she sinks to her knees and retches.

Not all days are horrible, though. Most are quite pleasant, actually. As the weeks pass, Miryam grows to love healing. Kamona has a book with notes on anything a healer might need and Miryam memorises each word. But when Kamona asks her to help with the sick in the villages they pass, she shakes her head (they are Fae, all of them. Slavers. Miryam can barely admit to liking Kamona, she certainly isn't ready to help these people. Her mother's face flashes before her eyes).

"It shouldn't be long now", Kamona says one evening, making Miryam look up from the herbs she is sorting through, "Just another month or so."

Perhaps saying it was bad luck. Because the next day, as they are camping on top of a small hill, they see soldiers coming their way. Black Land soldiers

Miryam runs towards their horses. She already sits in the saddle when she realizes Kamona hasn't moved.

"We will never outrun them", the healer says, "You go. I'll stay here."

"No." Miryam shakes her head wildly.

But Kamona takes her big, ancient book on healing and puts it into Miryam's saddle bag. "Consider it payment, for the suffering my kind caused yours. Besides, I certainly deserve death more than you do." She must have seen Miryam's confusion because she adds: "I broke my vows. Killed someone. They are after me as well."

Miryam stares at her, open mouthed. She knows how easily Kamona could escape - she would just have to hand Miryam over. But she won't. A Fae sacrificing herself for a human. It shouldn't be possible.

"No", Miryam says, although her voice is shaking. She knows Ravenia's punishments, knows what will be done to her. But Kamona is her friend (if such a thing is possible between Fae and human). "I can't..." The soldiers are so very close now.

"Just do me a favour", Kamona says, "Save some mercy for my people. Not all of us are monsters."

Then, she slaps Miryam's horse on the flank, making it jump forward so fast that she almost falls out of the saddle. She only looks back once. Back to the female who sacrificed herself for her. She is standing on the hilltop, looking towards the approaching soldiers

The horse runs faster, perhaps sensing its rider's fear

When Miryam finally stops, the sun is already rising. She slides out of the saddle, her entire body is stiff.

That's twice now that a Fae has saved her life.

She falls to her knees and cries.

She wonders when she became so hopeless, so filled with hate. So empty (she knows, of course she knows). But suddenly, she doesn't want to be that person anymore

She just doesn't know how to be anything else. Because the girl who survived Ravenia, survived the horrors of the Black Land - perhaps she was never meant to truly live

So, kneeling in the grass, Miryam lets her die.

She can't go back to being the child she was before Ravenia broke her. But she can choose who she wants to be now.

"I will be kind", she whispers towards the rising sun, "I will help others, I will keep them from suffering as I did. No matter who they are, no matter _what_ they are. I will be kind."

When the sun has fully risen, she picks herself up from the ground and continues. North. Towards rebellion.

In the next village, there is a young Fae male with an infested gash along his leg. Miryam dismounts and kneels next to him. "I'm a healer", she says, "Let me help you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was rather slow, I know, but the development was needed. There will be more action next time, as well as the appearance of another familiar character. Do you like this story? I`d love some feedback :)


	3. Chapter 3

## Chapter 3

There is another desert. Great. Simply great. Sometimes, Miryam wonders if fate hates her.

But in a small town on the edge of the sand, a Fae female with a bad cough that she is treating tells her about the human rebels who have set up their camp just on the other side of the sand. The female means it as a warning, but Miryam has to lower her head to hide her smile.

"I mean it", the female insists, "You may be part human, but you are also half Fae and these people won't like that."

This worries Miryam more than she wants to admit. But she swore a vow to save her people and another one to be kind, to help others - and for both, she needs the rebellion.

So she spends her last coins on a camel and sets off.

On the first day, she runs into a pack of Martax and almost gets eaten (again). On the second day, there is a stabbing pain in her lower body. Closer inspection reveals that she is, apparently, on her period. (Of course _. Of course_ she gets her first bleeding while stuck in the middle of a desert. It`s just typical.)

On the third day, she runs out of water. She was supposed to reach an oasis that day, but it is dried out. She guesses it is a side effect of thirst (or maybe of the heat) when she starts seeing strings of light, running through the air and over the ground. She blinks and they are gone.

On the fourth day, she falls asleep in the shadow of a sand dune and wakes up in a small cabin. Miryam jumps to her feet - and slams into a wall of hard air. Around her, there is are symbols drawn on the wooden panels. Forming a perfect circle and trapping her within.

Miryam has seen those symbols before. For a moment, she thinks that she`s still asleep and this is another nightmare. But something tells her this is very real.

"You know", a voice drawls behind her, "this would have been much easier for you if you had stayed unconscious.

Miryam spins around and comes face to face with a High Fae female. In her hands, she holds an ancient-looking book bound in black leather.

The female is a witch

Fear shoots through Miryam. This can't be happening. Not when she was so close to reaching the rebellion. For a moment, Miryam thinks that she sees the strings of light again, wrapping around the witch, running through the air. But they vanish as quickly as they appeared

The witch raises her hands and smiles at Miryam. "You should consider it an honour, girl. Your life will be used for something greater."

Miryam doesn't beg for mercy. She knows there won't be any and spent her entire life on her knees - she won't die that way, too.

The witch begins chanting

Miryam can feel the magic, wrapping around her body. Burning, searing. (This is what her mother must have felt in her last moments). She raises her hands, like she might ward of the looming death.

The lights are back. Strings of light, wrapping around her. Miryam pushes against them and something inside her rises up, up, up.

Burning pain.

Her body is on fire. It hurts. Hurts so badly she thinks she may be dying. She leans to the sides and retches up blood.

Somehow, she manages to sit up.

Around her, the house is reduced to cinders. Where the witch stood, there is nothing but a pile of ashes on the ground. The book is still there, untouched, but everything else is destroyed. But the strings of light are still there, fainter but clearly visible.

It is impossible. Miryam should be dead - worse than dead.

She wants to laugh, but she only manages a broken sob. She knows enough about witches from her time in Ravenia's court to understand what it means that the female is dead and she is still alive. What those strings of light mean and why they appeared just when she bled for the first time.

Miryam is a witch.

It has to be some kind of sick joke by whoever decides these things - maybe the Cauldron. She has seen such unspeakable horrors inflicted by witches and witchers - on humans, on her people - and she...

Stumbling, Miryam gets to her feet. She doesn’t know why, but she takes the book when she staggers outside. (Maybe she knows it is too dangerous to just be left lying around. Or maybe some small part of her understands that she will still need it.)

Through some stroke of luck, the stable is still standing and inside, she finds her camel standing next to two horses. The animals look up when she enters. They stand frozen, staring at her.

She puts the book into the saddle bag next to the one on healing. It feels wrong, death and life together. The animals still watch at her, without an inch of fear. It`s not natural. But Miryam once heard that witches can talk to animals. Maybe it is true, after all. She unties the horses.

"Go north", she tells them, "that's the way out of the desert." Then, she climbs into her camel's saddle.

She decides right then and there that those powers might be evil, but she is not. And she won't use them. Not now and not ever. So she locks them away, right alongside all that pain and the memories she cannot face, the past she chose to leave behind

(Years later, Miryam will look back and wonder what would have happened if she had chosen differently. If it would have saved her all the pain that later came with realising that there is no way to lock away parts of yourself forever - or if it would have broken her to face these things right there.)

During the following days, she begins to understand that choosing that she doesn't want to be a witch doesn't mean that she stops being one. The strings are everywhere. She doesn't understand what they mean, but they. Drive. Her. Crazy. Then, there are the animals. Snakes, hares, even bugs - all of them suddenly approach her without an inch of fear.

"Go away!", Miryam yells at them, "I don't want this!" But if they do understand, they certainly don't listen.

Finally, burning sand gives way to soft grass and trees. Miryam ties her camel to a tree and runs her fingers through the grass. She smiles. Now, she just has to find the rebellion, then everything will be fine.

She takes the rest of her food out of the saddle bag and sits down, back leaning against a boulder. Just as she is about to take a bite of the hard cheese, the forest around her goes silent. Miryam is on her feet, knife in her hand, in a second. Quickly, she climbs onto the boulder.

Three Naga burst into the clearing. There is a dark shimmer around them, like an aura. The first Naga takes a step forward - and collapses, the tip of an arrow pointing out of his throat. An Ash arrow.

Another arrow goes flying and hits a second Naga in the shoulder. The faeries whirl, snarling, just as three people appear out of the bushes. Two men, one woman.

And all of them human.

The Naga, surprisingly, don't stand a chance. A few seconds and they are all dead. One of the human men, old enough that his blond hair is already streaked with gray, is down as well with a nasty slice over his stomach. His companion, brown-haired and handsome, kneels next to him, while the woman now has an arrow pointed at Miryam

"What is a pretty little faerie like you doing here?", she asks sharply.

But the brown-haired man looks up. His eyes slide from Miryam's face to her arm, where here sleeve slid up to reveal the brand on her arm. His eyes widen slightly, but his tone is light as he says: "You know, Tia, sometimes you can be shockingly blind. Can't you see that she is partially human?"

He stands up und jerks his head at the woman - Tia - who lowers her bow and takes his place at the injured man's side.

"Are you going to come down from that rock, or do you need me to help you?", he asks mockingly.

Miryam scowls at him and clims down. Her camel is pulling at its rope, but as soon as she puts a hand on its side, it calms down.

"Thank you. For your help", she says.

"You`re welcome. Although I do wonder what you are doing here. This isn't the safest region." He is younger than Miryam thought at first, five years older than her at most

"I survived worse”, she says.

The man glances at the brand on her arm again. "I can imagine."

But Miryam's attention goes to the injured man, who is now groaning in pain. "Someone needs to take care of that wound or he won't live another hour”, she says and starts searching her saddle back for her supplies

"You know anything of it?", Tia asks, but her eyes are full of hope

Miryam nods and kneels next to the injured, inspecting the wound. "I need some water", she says and Tia goes running

"I was looking for the rebellion", Miryam adds, in answer to the man's earlier question, "You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

He laughs softly. "Oh, I most certainly do. I just happen to be the leader of this particular group." He sketches a mocking bow. "Jurian, at your service."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, Miryam being a witch (or having any power at all, really) is not canon. There are a few hints, but I mostly just made it up. It doesn`t interfer with canon, though, and because the books don`t tell us that much about the War, I need to fill in lots of blanks about characters, names, cultures etc. Most other characters from the Continent (except for Miryam, Drakon, Jurian, Nephelle and her lover), the culture and almost everything about witches are not canon either. Ravenia is a name mentioned in the Prologue of ACOWAR and I just decided to use it for the Queen of the Black Land, who didn`t have a name in acotar.  
> The next chapter will be dual point of view, one part on Rhys, the other on Drakon. It should be up either later today or sometime tomorrow.  
> As always, I`d love to hear what you think of this :)


	4. Chapter 4

## Chapter 4

It has been more than two decades since Rhys last saw his father. Then, he was a boy, terrified of being send off to the Illyrian Mountains.

Now, Rhys is a grown male. Over the past years, he has changed so much, grown in more ways than one and found another family beyond the one he was born into. Still, standing in the snow of the Illyrian camp between Mor and his Mother, waiting for the father he barely remembers, Rhys feels like a child again.

The High Lord arrives in a wave of darkness, his power a rumble in the air, and the entire camp drops to their knees.

After several minutes of kneeling in the frozen mud, the High Lord allows them to rise. He embraces his mate and kisses Mor on the cheek. Then, he turns to Rhys. His fathers` eyes narrow as he takes in the Illyrian leathers, the weapons and the power that Rhys doesn't bother to entirely conceal.

"Father", Rhys says, not bothering to sound pleasant. He still remembers the letters he sent years and years ago, begging his father to forbid Keir from selling his daughter to the Autumn Court like she was no more than a breeding mare. The letters that went unanswered. He hasn't forgotten what happened afterwards, either.

His mother puts a hand on his arm in warning, then she nods towards Az and Cass, standing behind them, and says to her mate: "Those are my wards, Cassian and Azriel."

"The bastards”, his father sneers.

Rhys bristles, feeling the sudden need to defend his brothers. "Cassian is already the best warrior of the century", he says, "and Azriel is a shadowsinger."

"Is that so?" His father's eyes narrow again as he truly looks at Az and Cass for the first time. Rhys gets the feeling that he might have made a horrible mistake.

For the next hours, he has to follow his father around as he inspects the camp. By the time they finally retreat to their cabin, Rhys can't wait for the male to leave again.

They all sit together at the table that seems much too small for the High Lord. Dinner is tense. Cassian and Azriel sit together, wings drawn in tight to their muscular bodies. Mor and Rhys' parents do most of the talking.

Finally, the High Lord sets down his fork and says, "There will be war."

Silence follows.

"Tensions have been rising", the High Lord says, "for quite some time. Many on the Continent feel that the Black Land has been growing too powerful lately. Too unchecked. And Queen Ravenia murdering those Erithian royals certainly did not do anything to ease their worries." He laughs softly, like it is some kind of joke, then sobers. "If there is war on the Continent, Prythian will follow. And I expect the Night Court to be prepared."

Rhys exchanges a look with Az. Not a word about the humans rising up in rebellion, but he isn`t surprised. To his father, they are nothing. All he cares about is power.

"This war", his father adds, "may just be the most important event of the millennia. And I expect us to stand on the winning side."

\----

Sometimes, Prince Drakon of Erithia wonders how his life could go to hell so quickly.

Actually, he wonders about that quite a lot.

Less than a year ago, he had parents and two older sisters, one of whom would one day inherit his father's title. Less than a year ago, he had just finished his time in the army and his father had offered him a place in his council, where he would have been the youngest member in more than five centuries.

Then, Ravenia happened.

"You want some advice?", Sinna asks from where she lies sprawled on the couch, "Just give it up. If the country's best tutors haven't been able to teach you, you certainly won't learn it now."

Drakon briefly consideres throwing his book ("Continental Politics for beginners") at her head. Sinna has always been frank to the point of rudeness and most days, he likes that about her. Today, not so much.

It doesn't help that she is right.

Drakon is hopeless at politics. Always was and likely always will be. He just can't get the millions of rules into his head (which is weird, because he has no problem at all memorising all the books he read on political systems, laws, societies and philosophy) And once the political meetings start, pleasant words hiding sharp insults, he is completely lost.

"I have to learn that", he bites out. ("If I had learned it earlier, my family might still be alive", is what he doesn't say).

Sinna still catches his meaning. "Your father was a grown male who should have known better than to sell you off to Ravenia - and I don't give a shit that you agreed, he should never have taken her offer." She glares at him. "The point I'm trying to make is that you aren't a politician and you will never be. The sooner you realise that, the better."

Drakon glares right back. "What is it you're trying to say? That I'm useless as a Prince?"

"I think that you will be a great Prince - as soon as you stop worrying about what you _can't_ do and focus on the things you are good at." She gets up. "Now, I have a meeting with my girlfriend who, quite frankly, is much better company than you are, so I'm leaving."

"Then I won't keep you", he says, "Give Nephelle my best."

Sinna nods, then she adds: "There will be war, Prince. So as your General, I'm telling you: Get your shit together." With that, she turns around and stalks out of the room.

Drakon sighs. By now, everyone on the Continent agrees that war is inevitable. (A part of him is glad that Ravenia might be punished, after all. A much bigger part is terrified of what war might do to his people).

He puts the book back on the shelf and takes a file from his desk. He scans the reports in it, but they are full of nothing. His spies found no trace of the half Fae slave he helped escape (and who helped him in more ways than she will ever know).

He likes to think that she is safe and happy in one of the human countries. That at least one thing he did that night didn't meet a horrible end.

With another sigh, he puts down the report and writes a note giving his emissary full authorization to represent his country on the outside. Because Sinna is right - he is hopeless at foreign politics. But he knows everything about societies, political systems and laws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know the characters are a bit different from how we know them, but they are all super young in this and I`m actually trying to explain a bit how they turned into the people they are in acotar. I hope you liked what I added about the young Inner Circle and Drakon. I`d love to hear your thoughts in the comments :)  
> The next chapter will be entirely on Miryam again, but after that, the point of views will be mixed every time.


	5. Chapter 5

## Chapter 5

"Will I be able to use the arm again?", the young soldier asks.

"Yes." Miryam checks once again that the bandages are firmly in place, then grabs a bowl of water from her worktable to wash the blood off her hands. "Although the next time, you might do well to remember that Martax bites are poisonous and come seek me out before you collapse in the middle of the camp."

He gives her a rueful smile and can't stop thanking her for almost a minute.

When he leaves, Miryam calls after him, "If I hear about you so much as looking at a sword again before next week, I'll tell Jurian to make you guard the latrine until next month!"

"Using me as a threat?", an amused voice comes from the tent's opening.

Miryam shrugs. "It works. Since the Mother knows they never listen when I tell them their injuries won't _heal_ if they don't allow their bodies to rest."

Jurian laughs. "So, you coming?", he asks, "Or are you too busy with all these handsome men seeking you out?" Miryam rolls her eyes and he adds, "Seriously. I feel like ever since you arrived, half my soldiers end up in your tent at least once a week with some scratch or another."

"And the other half only comes to see me when they already lost at least a litre of blood", Miryam says, following him out of the tent, "Come to think of it, the only man who seems to be constantly hanging out in my tent for no reason at all is you, Jur."

"Ouch" Jurian puts a hand over his heart. "And here I was, thinking you enjoyed my company."

"You know I do. Why else would I let you drag me along for lunch every day?"

Miryam doesn't hear Jurian's reply because a soldier is calling out to her, thanking her for a tincture she gave him to help his daughter's cough. Walking through the camp takes a while, soldiers call out greetings - to Jurian, but just as many to Miryam even though he is this army's commander and she is just... her.

Almost five months since she arrived at the camp and she still hasn't quite gotten used to the fact that people don't seem to care if she is a half-breed. They even seem to genuinely like her.

Eventually, Jurian manages to secure a plate of food for each of them. Miryam turns to where they usually sit with the soldiers, but this time, Jurian takes her arm and leads her away from the central part of the camp. He finally sits down near the stable.

The horses who are tied to a fence outside all turn to Miryam, some even pull on their leashes to get closer to her. She puts down her plate to gently stroke a mare whose hide is the same burnt red as the sand in the Black Land.

Jurian says from behind her, "A letter arrived today. From the human Queens.'"

"They finally deigned to answer the letters you wrote?" (Well, the letters Miryam wrote and Jurian signed, since he certainly never learned how to deal with royalty.)

"They called a meeting with all the human leaders to discuss our plans."

"Good. So they are going to stop sitting on their asses while we fight this war for them." A horse nudges her in the side and she smiles.

"I want you to come."

Miryam freezes. "No." She has to fight to keep her voice calm. "Find someone else."

"I don't want anyone else."

"Why? I am nobody important. What use could I be?"

Jurian glares at her. "Oh, don't give me that. Like you haven't been sitting in on my meetings for the past two months. And ever since you took over the camp organisation, we haven't had a single food shortage or a mix-up with the troops."

Still, Miryam shakes her head. She can't go to court, can't face those queens. Even if they are human, even if they are not Ravenia, she can't do it. But she can't tell Jurian, because then, she would need to explain and she can't do that either. Because to explain means to face what happened and if she does that, she will fall into a hole - and she doesn't think she will ever be able to get out again.

Around her, the horses get restless, as if sensing her unease. The strings start vibrating and moving around. Miryam can feel her power rising and rumbling inside her (no one else ever notices, thank the Cauldron. But no one else sees the strings, either).

"Please, Miryam. You can convince anyone to do anything. Besides, the people love you - sometimes I think my own soldiers like you better than me. For Cauldron's sake, even the animals adore you!"

Miryam winces. She wonders how long it will take until someone notices that it is not natural, the way the animals are drawn to her. She doubts they will still like her when they find out - far more likely they would have her killed (not that she could blame them).

Jurian continues, "I need you for this. Please don't leave me to do it alone."

What is Miryam supposed to reply to that? She thinks of her people, dying in the Black Land. The people she swore to free and who will continue to suffer if this alliance fails.

"All right. I'm coming", she says.

They leave the next day. They travel by horses, a small group of soldiers escorting them. In the nearest harbour, a ship bearing the flags of one of the human kingdoms waits for them. The sailors call Jurian "General" and Miryam "Lady". (Well, one of them calls her "Fae trash" once. The next time she sees him, the left side of his face is swollen and bruised. Jurian doesn't even bother to fake surprise.)

When they arrive in the human capital, people cheer in the street as they ride past Apparently, those fighting for human freedom are worshiped as heroes, here.

The city itself is a bit crammed and a bit dirty, the palace they are led towards little more than a townhouse compared to the splendour of the Black Land. But here, the houses aren't paid for in human blood and to Miryam, that makes them indefinitely more beautiful

They are told that the meeting will begin in an hour and led to their rooms to refresh themselves.

There, the first thing goes wrong. It is ridiculus, really.

Just a dress.

A gift by the queens, supplying their guests with new clothes after the long journey. Miryam hasn't worn any dresses in over a year.

She stares at it for a few seconds, telling herself that she is being stupid, that this dress is nothing like the ones she wore as a slave. It is an elegant dress. Expensive (likely worth more than Miryam, which in itself is an unsettling thought).

Still, she can barely bear to put it on. Mercifully, the fabric covers most of her body - she certainly doesn't feel like showing off her scars for those pampered royals to gawk at. Unfortunately, it is still a dress and the cuffs around her wrists feel far too much like shackles.

She rushes to the bathroom and retches into the toilet.

By the time the meeting begins, Miryam has gotten a grip on herself. Looks like some of the self-control that allowed her to survive Ravenia is still left. Jurian, at least, doesn't seem to notice anything is wrong when he greets her in front of her room.

The beginning of the meeting goes smoothly. Miryam remembers to keep her head high, to act like a guest, not a slave and Jurian manages the greeting almost perfectly (except for one small mistake, but Miryam doesn't think anyone but her notices).

The six queens don't seem to care about formality all that much, anyways. Neither do the three other human leaders or their companions. Miryam is the only one with mixed heritage, but someone must have informed the others about her past, because no one comments on her pointed ears.

What follows is an endless row of meetings. Considering that they all want freedom for humans, they sure do argue a lot amongst themselves.

After a few hours, the main issue is clear: the ones actually fighting the war (meaning Jurian and the three others) demand a unified front, shared burdens, equal rights - and everyone contributing troops. The queens agree to send money and resources, but don't want to risk their people by declaring war on thee Fae territories that own slaves or sending their soldiers.

Miryam watches silently for several hours before she finds the courage to speak up for the first time. After that, it gets easier. After all, she spent years watching the Fae at Ravenia's court, learning the rules and the way they play their games. Now, she finds out that she can play as well. She doesn't know what to think of it.

At the end of the second day, the other human leaders begin approaching her with their problems. She finds out that all of them are from small human settlements, that they worked their way up and never learned how to survive at court.

"It's not like I am that good at it", she tells Jurian one evening, "But human politics seem to be a really simplified version of Fae politics, so I have a bit of an advantage."

Jurian shakes his head and laughs. "Still, you were amazing today. How did you ever learn that?"

Miryam tries not to think about the scars covering her body. "The hard way", she replies

After a week of arguing, the queens retreat to vote on their course of action. Jurian, Miryam and all the others are not allowed to be present for the vote. But they get to step out on the balcony alongside the queens when they announce their decision.

One of them, a stunning young woman named Andromache who argued in favour of sending troops just as hard as Miryam did, turns towards her and shakes her head softly. Sadly. No, they did not vote in their favour.

Miryam can barely stand to listen to the oldest queen as she steps forward and gives a pretty little speech to her subjects, making it seem like their decision is a brave one and not the choice of cowards. Like they are not abandoning them all to death.

Once the speech is done, Jurian hisses at the queen, "Are you mad? We will never win this if you don't send help!"

An argument breaks out, but Miryam barely listens. She can only think of the size of Ravenia's army. Their own soldiers are so few in comparison. And their only chance - their _only_ chance against that - is to stand united. Because if they don't, not one of the Fae countries will ever consider allying with them. They will all be wiped of the map

Miryam steps forward without thinking. "Are you truly such cowards?", she calls, to the queens and the humans below.

The murmuring of the crowd quietens as all eyes turn on her. The old queen makes to step forward, but Andromache grabs her arm, holding her back.

"You cheer in the streets as we ride past", Miryam calls, "but you won't do a thing to help us! While you sit on your asses in your protected city, these people", she points at Jurian and the others, "are fighting and dying so that you remain free and unbothered. While you toast to our victories, out there, humans are being raped and tortured and slaughtered. These humans have no way to protect themselves! How can you stand by and _not do a thing_ to help them? How can you not fight for them?" The crowd is so very quiet now. Miryam is shaking, but she goes on, "We are all humans - we are one people. It is time we start acting like it!"

She turns back towards the queens and the other human leaders who are all staring at her. She doesn't back down. The old queen is glaring daggers at her, but Jurian and Andromache are both grinning broadly.

Behind her, the crowd explodes into applause.

What happens afterwards is a blur. Miryam hardly notices who speaks to her, claps her on the back or how she ends up in her rooms.

But she will never forget the moment the message arrives, an hour before midnight, telling her that the queens repeated their vote (prompted, Miryam later hears, by their armies threatening to desert their posts and join the rebellion with or without an order). They now want to form a council with Jurian and the three other human leaders, to coordinate their efforts and share the burden. Equal votes. Everyone supplying troops.

And, as the only person without an army of her own, without anything to contribute to the war effort, Miryam, too, is given a seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo, things are really getting started. Next time, the Fae get more involved in the conflict, Miryam is talked into doing a job she doesn't want and the Night Court picks a side.


	6. Chapter 6

# Chapter 6

Jurian feels like everyone around him is missing the point.

They sit and argue endlessly about organisation and technicalities that won't do a thing to help them win this war. (Because now, it is officially a war, like they weren't fighting and dying before.) He wonders how his soldiers are doing, back in the camp. He wishes he was back there with them, where he can be useful, not in this stuffy chamber

"You mean the Fae", the oldest queen, Nakia, hisses, bringing Jurian's attention back to the discussion

Queen Nakia is glaring at Miryam. "Do you honestly mean to ally us to the very people who enslaved and murdered us for millennia? You are a fool, girl."

Jurian has to remind himself that the woman before him is a queen and not someone he can punch in the face, no matter how much he might want to. But Miryam smiles ever so slightly.

"Fool I may be, but I certainly do not need to be lectured on the horrors of slavery. Nor can you argue that I have more experience dealing with Fae than you do."

Perhaps, Jurian muses, these meetings are not so different from battle, after all. Leading your opponent along, waiting for an opening and striking the fatal blow. In moments like this, it is almost amusing to watch. If only the foreplay wasn`t quite so tedious.

Miryam continues, "I understand wanting to see all Fae as monsters. But the fact remains that they are not and we are not in the position to be picky with our allies. So as far as I am concerned, any Fae territory that does not own slaves is a potential ally."

There is a lot of murmuring around the table, especially among the three other non-royal members of the council. Jurian cannot blame them for being sceptic.

Like most of his soldiers, he was born in one of the free human villages that exist almost everywhere on the Continent. He grew up fearing Fae attacks, hearing of people being slaughtered and stolen away - and later joined the rebellion because of it. A part of him abhors the idea of working side by side with Fae.

However, he is also a general, he knows the numbers are stacked against them. So he says, "Miryam has a point. We need allies in this, or things will turn ugly quickly once the Black Land and its allies send their armies against us."

The discussion could have ended with this, but they continue arguing for almost an hour until Andromache finally calls for a vote. There are eight in favour of allying with the Fae, two against and one abstained.

"I think we can save ourselves the discussion about who will represent our interests with the Fae", Jurian says, because he is tired of these pointless meetings dragging on for hours.

"Right." Andromache shrugs. "So, does anyone have a problem with Miryam being named emissary?"

"Me?" Miryam blanches. "No, I can't..."

"Yes, you", Nakia says, "After all, you said yourself that you knew the Fae best. Besides, it's not like you are needed for anything else." A cold smile. "Or are you only in favour of working with the Fae as long as someone else does it?"

"Don't you speak to her like this", Jurian hisses.

He thought he was helping Miryam in suggesting her as emissary - after all, she is the obvious choice. He never meant to put her in this situation.

"If you don't want to", he says softly, "no one will force you."

"No. No, I can..." Miryam shakes her head and straightens. "I'm going to send out messages that we are going to fight for our freedom and request aid. But this won't work unless we have something to show for."

"Meaning?", one of the other queens asks.

Miryam turns to Jurian. "How quickly can you get us a military success? Something flashy."

Now, Jurian grins. Finally, things are being set in motion. No more discussion, but action. And gets a chance to do what he is good at.

He leans forward to get a better look of the map that is sprawled in the middle of the table.

"If any of their Majesties let me borrow their armada? Three days."

Miryam smiles broadly at that (and that alone is almost worth the hour-long meeting).

\----

"Brilliant", Rhys laughs, shaking his head, "Absolutely brilliant. What kind of madman came up with that?"

Az smiles slightly (as good as howling with laughter, coming from him). A shadow wraps around his ear. "The assault was led by a mortal general named Jurian."

"Well", Cass drawls once he stopped laughing long enough to form the words, "Montesere won't recover from that insult for a while."

"I doubt the insult is the main issue", Rhys says, "They lost their entire fleet."

Somehow, the mortal armada had managed to sail up one of the Continent's rivers, slip past Montesere's defences and burn down their entire fleet. The mortals certainly meant business and they had just declared it to the entire Continent

"Who would have thought that the mortals would be the ones to start this war?" Cass laughs again. "Those High Fae pricks must feel so _inconsequential_ for once in their miserable lives."

"Talking of High Fae pricks", Rhys cuts in, "What about my father?"

Az shrugs, his face turning cold. "I don't know. He had a witcher from the Guild set up wards around the Hewn City - there is no getting through."

Cass punches him in the side playfully. "Oh, don't look so pissed. Witchers are tricky bastards, everyone knows that."

Rhys shivers. He never met one of the Guild's fourteen members (only fourteen witches and witchers in the past centuries, making them even rarer than shadowsingers or daemati). But he heard enough stories to be glad of it.

"Surely your father will ally with the mortals", Cassian says, sobering, "I mean, with Vel-"

Azriel cuts him off with a sharp motion before he can say the name of the city's name (the city Rhys told them about, even though it is forbidden).

"My father may not be as bad as the outside world thinks he is", Rhys says, "But he is still a cold and calculating bastard. He won't fight for the mortals if he doesn't get anything out of it and he already made it clear that he plans to choose the winning side."

Silence reigns as each of them contemplates the odds. Even with their spectacular victory, the mortals still stand against the most powerful territories in the world. There is no way that anyone in their right mind would bet on them.

Finally, Rhys says into the silence, "No matter what my father decides, I know who I will be fighting for."

Cass and Az exchange a look. Then, Az says, "We will be right by your side, brother."

\----

"No, no, no", Miryam whispers.

She tries to push herself up off the ground. Glass splinters cut into her hands and she gasps. Blood wells up, a drop falls on the carpet. Her power is still pulsing through the air around her, the strings glow so brightly that Miryam has to squeeze her eyes shut just to make it stop.

A knock on the door

Miryam freezes. The windows, the glasses on the cupboard - all of it is shattered

How is she ever supposed to explain this?

"Miryam!", a voice calls from the other side of the door. Queen Andromache. "Your escort arrives in fifteen minutes. Are you ready?"

It would take a miracle to solve this. Or magic (well, maybe not magic, since it is what started this whole problem in the first place).

One moment, she was sitting on the floor, trying to fight down her panic at the thought of visiting a Fae court. The next, the windows shattered into a million pieces. Some kind of magical shock wave, she guesses.

Andromache opens the door.

For a second, they just stare at each other, Andromache standing in the doorway, Miryam sitting amidst broken glass on the ground. She wonders if the queen can sense the magic still in the air, making it crackle with power.

"I...", Miryam whispers, "I can explain." She can't (at least not without getting killed on the spot).

Andromache looks between Miryam and the shattered windows. "No need", she says softly, "These windows break quite easily. I asked for them to be replaced about a million times already." She smiles. "I'll get someone to clean it up for you, no problem at all."

Miryam stares at her. There is no way the queen believes this, she is far too bright for it. So that means... she is covering for her.

"Can you do it?", Andromache asks, "The meeting."

Miryam takes a deep breath and shoves her magic back down by sheer force. "Just give me a second to get the blood off my hands."

Mere minutes later, Miryam is standing at the front door of the palace next to Jurian, waiting for their Fae escort.

"Are you all right?", he asks.

Miryam nods, not trusting herself enough to speak. ("I'm not", she wants to say, "I'm scared and I don't want this. I just want to go back to being a healer in your camp”). Her hands are throbbing.

In front of them, a Fae male appears out of thin air. A few of the humans let out yelps, the guards go for their swords (two capital insults in the first few seconds - Miryam is almost glad it will only be her and Jurian at the meeting).

She steps forward, smiling at the stone-faced Fae, thanking the Cauldron that she learned a long time ago how to mask her fear well enough that even the Fae with their sharp senses can't smell it on her. The male inclines his head towards Miryam and Jurian, then holds out a hand to them.

Around him, the air starts glowing, strings of light weave together more tightly, forming a tunnel. Before she can take a closer look, the male's hand tightens around her arm and they are being ripped away.

They reappear in a huge throne room. Light streams through the many windows and above them, colourful banners hang from the high ceiling. Bright and lovely, nothing like Ravenia's court. And at the same time, far too similar.

But there are also the strings and the lights in the air. Far more than Miryam ever saw in one place. The ones close to Miryam are moving towards her - not that anyone but her can see them.

Jurian looks like he considers reaching for his sword, but Miryam doesn't dare to give him a warning look. Not with the Fae staring at them. Not as a blue-skinned faerie approaches them. The Grand Duke of Sangravah - a male whose army is big enough to match that of his long-time enemy Montesere. And their host for this evening.

Miryam bowed deeply. "Your Grace. It is a great honour and pleasure to be invited to your beautiful court."

"The pleasure is mine", the Grand Duke says. He shoots a look at Jurian. "I assume that you are the general who relieved Montesere of their armanda. But you", he inclines his head towards Miryam, "I do not know."

Miryam bows again. "My name is Miryam, Your Grace. I am a member of the human council and have authority to speak for them during this meeting." Her voice is calm, thank the Cauldron.

Jurian says nothing. He looks like he would rather face a group of hungry martax than the assembled Fae, but if they are lucky, no one will take insult. Not when Miryam just introduced herself as the official emissary and it is her the Fae will look to.

Indeed, the Grand Duke offers her his arm, smiling. Miryam hesitates a second too long before taking it. Fortunately, the Grand Duke doesn't comment on her misstep. Miryam had hoped that they would retreat to a private chamber to discuss the alliance he hinted at in his letter, but instead, he leads her towards a dinner table.

While they eat, it is up to Miryam navigate the conversation with the various nobles. She would love to say that it all goes smoothly - but all she knows about Continental politics is what she taught herself by watching. So she makes mistakes - lots of them. To be fair, she also scores a few points, but the Fae are going easy on her.

There is a brief reprieve for her when Jurian is asked to tell them about how he burnt down Montesere's armada. Even though Miryam already knows the story, he tells it vividly enough that she finds herself listening just as intently as the others.

Sometime during the dinner, Jurian seems to become more comfortable around the Fae. When some of the Grand Duke's generals ask him to join them in their discussion after dinner, he looks almost happy as he follows them.

"Would you join me for a walk, my Lady?", the Grand Duke asks, leaning on Miryam's chair.

She nods and allows him to lead her out of the throne room. They step out of the palace into the garden and pass through a weave of strings that encompasses the entire building. The wards, Miryam realises with a start. She can see the wards.

They pass through beets with flowers in full bloom. They are alone out here, a fact that Miryam is painfully aware of. Finally, they stop in front of a cage full of colourful birds who start flapping around as Miryam approaches.

The Grand Duke smiles at her. "They are beautiful, aren't they?"

"Yes. But I wonder, wouldn't they be more beautiful if they were free?" It is a bold move, but the Grand Duke has been kind so far and she is tired of dancing around.

"So you have sympathy for caged things." He laughs. "Yet I have to wonder what kind of stake a half Fae female who is so obviously well-versed in Continental politics has in all of this. Who do you work for?"

Miryam almost laughs at the idea - her, a spy for some Fae court? Instead, she pulls up the sleeve of her dress to reveal the brand on her forearm, the scars around her wrists. His eyes widen.

"What I want", she says, "is for my people to be free - and for no child to ever be beaten and sold and slaughtered for the crime of being born human again."

The Grand Duke of Sangravah turns towards the cage, face unreadable. "You know, I am what many people call a 'lesser faerie'", he says with soft venom, "I have seen and experienced my fair share of injustice - though none can quite compare to what you humans experience throughout these lands on a daily basis. Still, believe me when I say that I, too, wish for freedom for my people."

"So you will fight with us?", Miryam asks. She can't quite keep her voice from shaking. This is it. The moment of truth.

The Grand Duke pulls open the door to the cage. The birds hesitate for a second, then they flatter out. In a cloud, they fly around Miryam, some landing on her head and shoulders. Then, they shoot off into the night.

The Grand Duke turns towards her. "Yes, Miryam from the Black Land", he says, "I will fight for you and your human alliance." He looks up towards the birds vanishing in the dark and smiles. "Although maybe, we ought to chance the name to human-faerie-alliance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the people who are commenting and leaving kudos, it really makes me so happy each time :)  
> In the next chapter, Miryam visits the Night Court where she meets Rhys and Mor, Jurian finally gets to return to his army camp and Drakon has an important meeting. Again, it will be up tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

## Chapter 7

Rhys enters his father's study without knocking. "Is it true?", he snaps.

The High Lord of the Night Court barely looks up from the papers he is studying. Sitting behind his large black desk, he looks a lot like a lord of nightmares.

"Try again, this time politely", he says, "Then I might bother with a reply."

Cauldron, he hates the male.

Swallowing his pride, Rhys exits the room again. Closes the door and knocks. His father, damn the bastard, waits a few seconds before asking him in.

"Would you kindly tell me", Rhys drawls, voice dripping with sarcasm, "if there is any truth to the rumours of you planning to ally us with the _Loyalists_."

"And what would you do if it was true?"

Rhys ignores the challenge in the question. "What about Velaris? What about the dream this court founded on? You would betray all of it by fighting to enslave an entire people!"

The High Lord rises in his seat, his power rumbles through the air. "Don't you take this tone with me, boy. I am not beholden to you and if I choose not to waste this my subjects' lives for a lost cause, you are to accept my decision."

"This isn't about your people - just about power!"

Rhys feels his magic rising up to meet his father's, the control Amren taught him slipping away as his temper flares.

A knock sounds on the office door. Carefully, a courtier pokes his head in.

"Out!", the High Lord hisses

The courtier starts trembling, but doesn't run. "My Lord, we just received word from the Spring Court. They declared war on us."

"What?!", the High Lord growls.

"They... declared war, My Lord. Our spies report that their fleet joined with allies from Hybern and they are already sailing for our shores."

For a moment, silence reigns.

"I want messages sent out to every single one of my army commanders by nightfall, ordering them to raise their armies." The High Lord rises. "And send a letter to that damned human-faerie Alliance asking them to send an emissary."

The courtier nods and flees the room.

Rhys father turns to him. "And you", he spits, " Have that shadowsinger friend of yours report at the Hewn City. He works for me now. And Morrigan will move here as well. The Illyrian camps are no place for a girl during war."

"But father!", Rhys hisses, thinking of the horror Mor endured in this wretched place, what her and Az might face there.

"You", the High Lord snarls, "should learn to watch your tongue, boy. Don't think this is over!" With that, he storms out.

\----

"Stop sulking", Tia mutters

Jurian glares at her over the map they are both studying. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are! Ever since you came back, you are either staring dreamily into the air or sulking." She gives Jurian a playful shove. "As soon as she is done with Prythian, Miryam will be back. Which, given her track record, will be sooner rather than later."

"This has nothing to do with Miryam."

Tia has the nerve to laugh. "Keep telling yourself that."

The worst part is, she might have a point.

Ever since Sangravah, Miryam, as the only person both the humans and their new Fae allies trust enough to represent them, has been going from negotiation to negotiation, visiting half the Continent. Meaning that Jurian, who no one in their right mind would send on a diplomatic meeting, has only seen her _thrice_ in just as many weeks. And even though he is finally back in his camp with his soldiers, it is not the same without her.

So maybe he is indeed sulking.

It is made worse by the fact that both the Loyalists and the Alliance (the names are as new as the unions they represented) are busy raising their armies and finding new allies, so there are hardly any battles. The war for their freedom has officially begun, yet Jurian feels like he does nothing but sit on his ass.

It frustrates him to no end.

"Right." Jurian shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "Did our new allies already send word when, exactly, their troops would arrive?"

"No. And I'm still not confident about this idea."

Jurian isn't either. His experiences with Fae so far have been bad. Mixing their armies seems like asking for trouble. On the other hand, it also offers endless possibilities. (Jurian would never admit it out loud, but he always wanted to command an army that could wield magic.)

"I'm sure these Fae will behave", he says.

Tia shakes her head. "I sure hope they will. And I hope that you prepared a nice speech to explain to our soldiers why you want them to work together with the very people they spent their entire lives fighting."

\----

"How do you say: 'Shove your offer up your ass' in Continental politics?", Drakon asks, putting the letter down.

His emissary replies, "Well, given that Ravenia likely won't take kindly to you turning her down again, you might as well save yourself the trouble."

"So if I'm pissing her off anyways, I might as well do it properly?", he asks with a lightness he doesn‘t quite feel. But saying things lightly, he learned, helps easing other people's fears. "In that case, I might just add my opinion on a few other matters to the letter."

The comment earns him a smile from his emissary. "As long as I don't have to be the one to deliver the message, Your Grace."

"Are we prepared for war, though?", a female asks. She is new to the council, one of those who were voted into office a month ago. (Drakon is still proud of how well the election worked, how quickly he managed to get his new system working.)

Sinna, not taking kindly to anyone questioning her army's ability, glares at the female. "Excuse me?"

Drakon does everyone the favour of cutting in. "I can assure you that our army is well-prepared."

For a moment, there is silence. A few of the people around the table exchange looks and Drakon braces for what's about to come.

Finally, one of the older males speaks. "Since no one else is about to say it, I will, even though you may think me a coward for it." He sighs. "We do not need to fight this war. There are no humans in our lands. We have no stake in this. Remaining neutral is still an option."

Drakon lets Ravenia's letter drift over to him. "I doubt that she will allow us neutrality. She still wants to marry me, only the Cauldron knows why, and she might just attack us when I refuse."

And he will not consider marrying the female who had his family murdered - not now, not ever.

The male says, "Ravenia may be the most powerful person in the world, but at the moment, she has bigger worries. The Loyalists might let us remain unbothered if we remain neutral and the Alliance certainly will. We do not _need_ to fight in this."

There is a certain _tone_ to his words. A tone that always makes Drakon feel like a child being lectured. (Which, considering the fact that he is a century younger than the youngest member of his council, probably is not far from the truth.)

He sits up a bit straighter. "No, we don't need to fight. But this is about doing the right thing." He shakes his head. "I have been to the Black Land, I have seen what they do to their slaves. It may not directly concern us, but when did that become an acceptable reason to watch as innocents are being butchered? What does it make us, as a people, if we stand by idly and allow such injustices to continue?"

No one speaks. And Drakon finds himself in a rather unfortunate situation.

Because he firmly believes in fighting for freedom and against slavery. And he knows that, as Prince, he could order war.

But he also believes in giving his people a voice, in dividing up power. It is why he doubled the size of his council and had the new seats be filled by elected representants. Because no single person has the right to make a choice for thousands of others without at least giving them some kind of voice. So how can he spit on all of that the first time it truly matters?

"I will gladly fight for freedom - no matter whose", he says, "I will die for it and consider my life well spent, if need be." He wonders if anyone can see the battle that is raging in him as he takes a deep breath and says, "But it is not my choice alone to make. I founded this council to give the people I represent a voice and I promised to listen. So the choice will be yours. I vote in favour of joining the alliance and I can only beg you to do the same. But should the majority choose differently, I will do as you say."

Sinna looks at him with a mixture of annoyance and begrudging respect, the other nineteen members of his council exchange surprised glances. It seems they did not believe that he meant what he said months ago when he promised them a voice.

"Those in favour of joining the Alliance?", Drakon asks and raises his hand, even as he wonders what he will do if this goes badly.

Sinna is the first to follow his lead, glaring at the others in challenge. One after another, the others follow.

Fourteen in favour, fifteen counting Drakon. Six against

Drakon just barely manages to keep from slumping in his seat in relief. In favour. Thank the Cauldron, they voted in favour.

The first vote in his new system and it didn't go horribly wrong.

"Then it is decided", he says, "We are going to war."

\----

Being back in the Hewn City is a nightmare come true.

Mor thought she had moved past it, she thought it would all be fine, but now, she learns that she was wrong. It isn't fine. It isn't fine at all.

Rhys tries to take her hand, but she moves away. She can't show weakness. Not here, not in front of her father. From where he stands on the other side of the High Lord's throne, Keir shoots her a cool look.

"Easy", Az whispers in her ear, "He can't touch you."

She is so, so glad that Rhys and him are here, that she isn't alone with that monster. (But soon, they will be gone and she will remain here by the High Lords orders, completely alone.)

At that moment, the doors at the other end of the throne room swing open and the assembled Fae fall silent. Even the High Lord sits up a bit straighter on his throne.

The Alliance's emissary is surprisingly young, her brown skin showing that she hails from one of the Continent's southern areas. And her slightly rounded ears, her scent, the way she moves - all of it clearly marks her as partially human.

Which makes her the first person with human heritage Mor has ever seen.

Az whispers to her and Rhys, "Her name is Miryam, she's half High Fae, half human and a member of the Alliance's war council. She's their usual emissary and, allegedly, responsible for this alliance being formed in the first place."

The emissary approaches the throne and bows before the High Lord, the motion fluid enough to suggest some practice. The High Lord offers her half a nod, which is less than the emissary of half the Continent is owed.

"I'll be busy with my court for a while still", the High Lord drawls, "Feel free to enjoy the party's pleasures until I have time for you."

Mor supresses a snort. The Night Court is under attack, the Spring Court and Hybern already raiding their coast. Yet, the High Lord acts like he is generous in considering to join the Alliance, like the emissary is the beggar here.

"As you wish, High Lord." If the female feels slighted, she hides it well.

The High Lord waves a hand and the music continues. He motions Keir to step forward. The steward of the Hewn City bows and begins to drone on about Court matters that no one really cares about.

Mor stares at the male she once called father for a moment. She doesn't need her gift of truth to see the hateful, cruel male behind the polished smile. (She is not scared, she is not scared, she is not scared.)

She needs to get away.

Mor doesn't look at anyone as she leaves the dais. The guests shoot her looks. Mor thinks she hears them whisper ("Look at her. Keir's tainted daughter." and "I heard that they spiked nails through her body.") Or maybe she just imagines it.

A hand closes around her wrist and she whirls around. Only to come face to face with Keir.

"Look at that. My disgrace of a daughter."

"Let go of me", Mor hisses and tries to fight her rising panic. (She is not afraid, she _refuses_ to be afraid of him.)

She wriggles in his grasp, but he doesn't let go. And suddenly, all the lessons she had with Rhys, Az and Cass in the past years are gone, forgotten.

People are staring, but none of them makes a move to help her. And Rhys and Az are both on the dais, focused solely on the High Lord. No one will help her any Keir will take her back to that chamber below the mountain and he...

"Excuse me, but you are the lord of this city, right?", a light female voice asks, her accent foreign enough to make Mor recognise her before the emissary steps into view, "It is truly beautiful. I was wondering if you could show me around."

The words bring Mor back from her panic. And as Keir turns to the female, a snarl on his face, his grip on Mor's arm loosens.

"I have no time", Keir hisses, "to play guide for human filth."

Mor rips her arm out of his grip. Keir whirls to her, but as Keir takes a step towards her, the emissary steps into his way.

"I insist, actually", she says, voice hard

Mor uses the opening to flee. She makes it a few steps before she runs into Rhys.

"What happened?", he asks.

Mor just shakes her head, fighting her tears. "Please. I can't stay here, he'll kill me. You have to convince your father!"

Rhys opens his mouth to reply, but before he can say a word, all hell breaks loose around them.

\----

Miryam never meant to get into a fight. This is her last job, the last time playing emissary before she finally gets to return home (when did Jurian's camp become home, she wonders). So she kept telling herself that she would be back with Jurian soon, kept picturing his smile as the High Lord forced her to mingle with his horrible court. (Such a clumsy attempt to get her to slip up - yet far more effective than Miryam wants to admit.)

Weeks ago, just standing in this place would have been enough to get her to break down. But she has been to many courts in the past weeks - most of them beautiful, the people polite - and has grown quite a bit more confident.

So when that male dragged the girl away, Miryam didn't hesitate.

"You insolent girl", the male (Keir, if she remembers correctly) hisses, "Has no one ever taught you how to speak to your betters?"

Miryam feels the High Lord's attention on her, even from the other end of the room, as she smiles sweetly at the male before her. "I have a hard time believing that any male who has to resort to dragging a girl from the room against her will could ever be 'my better'"

For a moment, she just stares at her, fury twisting his face.

Then, he hits her.

It happens so fast she barely sees his hand move. She only understands what happened when she is already sitting on the ground, her head pounding.

How could this happen?

Darkness leashes through the room. When the lights flicker back on, the High Lord is standing next to her and Keir is lying on the ground, bound by shadows.

"Are you all right?" A young male goes to his knees before her. (The High Lord's son. His power is almost as vast as his father's, its echo tugging at Miryam like a strong current, and he is beautiful enough to stand out, even among the Fae.) "Do you need me to get a healer?"

"It's fine", she whispers, "I'm fine." (Except that she's not. Because she thought she was save - even when she was scared, she was sure no one could touch her. But that safety was just an illusion.)

Ignoring her dizziness, she gets to her feet. They are just bruises, she tells herself. She survived worse.

"Should I kill him for it?", the High Lord asks, sounding bored. But Miryam can see the panic behind the mask. This is a capital insult – wars have been declared on far less.

"No", the steward whimpers, "I'm begging you..." Then, he screams

Miryam can see the strings moving from the High Lord, wrapping around Keir's body - everyone else just hears his bones snap.

"Do you honestly think", the High Lord hisses, "that your life is worth more than this alliance?"

Keir screams again and even though he tried to drag away that girl, even though Miryam's entire body hurts, she can't bear to see him - anyone - like this. She has seen too many people screaming and pleading on the ground.

"This is not necessary", she says and wills her voice to sound cool and commanding, "But I would appreciate it if we could discuss this alliance now. I have had quite enough of your court for the day."

The High Lord nods and offers her his arm. Miryam pretends she doesn't see it. She doesn't think that she can bear being touched right now.

They retreat to a small room. Once they are alone, the High Lord nods to her face, where, she is sure, a bruise is already forming. (She doubts Keir meant to hit her this hard, he likely just forgot how much more breakable she is.)

"I could have a healer remove that", he says.

Miryam shakes her head. "Let us just get this over with. Your lands are under attack, your coast already burning. You need us far more than we need you. So you will sign a treaty promising us your support until the end of this war. In return, you get a seat on the Alliance's council and we'll send troops to help defend your lands."

"What about any gains? Lands, power?"

"I might have discussed that an hour ago, but now, I'm tired and my head hurts." And she is furious and scared and has a hard time keeping the memories at bay.

"You might do well to remember, _Lady_ , that you may have powerful friends, but you yourself are a whole lot of nothing. I _am_ power", the High Lord drawls, his magic roaring through the air, the midnight black of his aura darkening.

But Miryam refuses to let him scare her.

"And you might do well to remember that I have survived places that make your court look like the stuff of dreams before you try to intimidate me again", she snaps.

She never acted like this before, never lost control over the situation or her temper this badly. Not once in the past months. But no court was ever this similar to Ravenia's either.

Still, she softens her voice and adds, "But in spite of our unfortunate beginnings, I'd much rather be on friendly terms with you. So I'm going to let a healer remove those bruises and not tell anyone about what happened."

Because if she did, the human part of the Alliance might just insist on leaving the Night Court to fight on its own.

"As a sign of your goodwill", Miryam goes on, "you could name that blonde female your emissary and send her back with me."

For a second, the High Lord just stares at her. Then, he tips his head back and laughs.

"This is your price?", he asks, "For me to name my niece emissary?"

Miryam nods. "Unlike your other courtiers, she seems decent enough. So yes, why not?" (Miryam heard her begging the High Lord's son to get her away from this court. And even though the female is Fae and highborn, she still reminded Miryam of herself.)

"All right. This time, I'm letting you get away with it", the High Lord says, "But make no mistake: I usually do not take kindly to little girls who think they can force my hand. So before we meet again, you should consider carefully if you want to make an enemy out of me."

Miryam doesn't try to pretend it is anything but a threat. Still, she shakes the hand he offers her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, the last three chapters were a whole lot of meetings, but those are over for a while now. For now, I also introduced all the point of views I`ll be writing for the moment, but if you`d like to see any others, feel free to tell me :)  
> In the next chapter, Mor makes a decision, there is a battle and Miryam learns a few things about her abilities.


	8. Chapter 8

## Chapter 8

Mor still can't quite believe it. Even as she packs her things, even as she says goodbye to Rhys and Az, both of them wide-eyed, she still can't believe that she is truly leaving this place.

It must be a dream.

"Are you okay?", the emissary whispers to Mor. They stand together in an abandoned corridor waiting for someone to winnow them to the Continent.

"I wasn't the one who got punched in the face", Mor says before she can stop herself

She immediately wants to apologize, but the emissary just laughs, her brown eyes sparkling with amusement.

She holds out a hand. "I'm Miryam."

"Morrigan. But everyone calls me Mor."

"Nice to meet you." Miryam hesitates for a second, then adds, "Since I didn't really get a chance to ask earlier, I'm doing it now: This is what you want, isn't it? Because if you don't want to be named emissary, I can ask the High Lord to reverse it."

"No!", Mor all but shouts, "No, I want this, please don't... Wait. You got the High Lord to name me emissary?"

Miryam shrugs, her smile a bit sheepish, but before she can say anything else, their escort arrives, cutting off any discussion. The male doesn't look at either of them as he takes their hands and winnow them away.

They reappear in a garden with no one but a few guards (all of them mortal) there to witness their arrival. Miryam thanks their escort, but Mor is too busy staring at her surroundings to be polite. She has never been to the Continent before.

Mor looks up at the night sky. She is on the Continent, far away from her father and she is _free._

She spins around and throws her arms around Miryam, who stiffens a bit at the touch.

"Thank you", Mor whispers, "Thank you so much."

"Anyone would have done it." Miryam smiles at her before turning to the palace looming above. "Now, I need to go deliver a report. I'll have someone show you the way to your rooms and come visit you when I'm done. Okay?"

Mor nods. "Sure."

She hates to admit it, but she is still a little nervous when Miryam leaves her with one of the human servants (who, from the wary looks he shoots her, just as unhappy about the arrangement). The suite he shows her is large and elegant, fit for royalty. Mor feels out of place. Still, she unpacks her belongings and then sits down on her bed, waiting.

When the door finally opens, it is not Miryam who enters, but a mortal woman. Both her hair and skin are golden, making her glow like the sun. She is beautiful (not in the unearthly way Fae are, but more genuine, more natural).

Mor flushes bright red.

"I'm Andromache", the woman introduces herself, "one of the human queens."

Mor hastily gets to her feet and bows. "Morrigan, at your service.",

Andromache just laughs and waves her off. "No need for that." She unceremoniously sits down on the bed next to Mor. "You probably were expecting Miryam. But since she spent the past three days running around Prythian, I sent her off to bed. I hope you don't mind."

Mor is still slightly overwhelmed by the queen, so she just nods.

"Alright. Miryam told me what really happened at Night Court, but everyone here believes that the High Lord sent you because he hoped that a girl wouldn't scare us poor humans as much. You know what an emissary does, don't you?"

"Of course. I grew up at court, after all."

Being emissary isn`t a position that gives her any real power, she is just here to speak for the High Lord whenever he needs her to (quite different from the position Miryam holds, that authorises her to make any decision on behalf of the Alliance).

"Great", Andromache says, "The thing is, your High Lord gave you no orders for the moment. All the other emissaries either return home or tend to their other duties when they aren't needed here. But Miryam explained that you won't be staying in the Night Court, so what is it you're going to do when you aren't running errands for your High Lord?"

Mor blushes again, this time in shame. Because she has no real skills, nothing to offer beyond some basic training in court intrigue, what she learned from Rhys, Cass and Az about self-defence and an impressive amount of magic.

"I... I don't know", she whispers

Andromache smiles reassuringly and says softly, "And what is it you'd _like_ to do?"

Mor hasn't been asked this question often. Her parents certainly never cared. And even though it was better in the past years, even though Rhys and the others did everything in their power to give her as many choices as possible, but neither of them had the rank to go against the High Lord's orders

"I'd like to fight", she says. (It's the most improper thing she can think of, something the High Lord never allowed her to do in the past.)

Andromache grins. "Good choice. I'll ask Miryam if she is fine with taking you along to Jurian's camp tomorrow." She winks. "I wish I could come, too. With how things are going, you might just see battle before I do."

"You fight in battles?", Mor asks and can't help but glance at the queen's gown.

"Don't look so surprised, I might get insulted. This", she points at her clothes, "is just for court. I've been training to fight since I was a child. Most humans do."

Mor doesn't want to think about why they'd have to. Instead, she focuses on the fact that she is, for the first time, truly free. Going to the Continent, she decides, may just have been the best thing to ever happen to her.

\----

Arms crossed, Jurian watches the two new armies make camp next to his own

A thousand Fae soldiers. Half from Sangravah, led by a blue-skinned female general he already met at the Grand Duke's palace. The second half is from the Day Court in Prythian, an island that, in spite of having roughly the same size as some of the bigger territories on the Continent, seems to think itself at least as important as the entire Continent. Helion Spellcleaver, the army's commander and heir to the Day Court's High Lord, also seems to take himself rather important, but other than that, he's decent enough for a Fae.

So far, the Fae soldiers stayed well away from the humans. Jurian is grateful for it. He spent the past days trying to convince his soldiers to accept their new allies and, for the most part, it worked. After all, he earned their trust a long time ago.

It would have been easier if Miryam had been here. She is far better at these things. (Although Jurian is not sure if he wants her anywhere near Helion. The male flirts with anything that moves and Miryam is beautiful enough that she'd undoubtedly have his undivided attention. The idea bothers Jurian immensely.)

Scowling at the thought, Jurian turns away from the Fae camp to his own soldiers. Some of them are staring not-so-subtly at the Fae and hastily look elsewhere when they notice Jurian's attention.

He has made it halfway to his tent when a horn blast cleaves the air. Three long blasts, three short ones - the alarm.

Shit.

Jurian spins around and rushes off to where the alarm is coming from. A figure appears out of thin air right in his path. Jurian only just manages to stop in time to avoid crashing into him.

"No winnowing on the roads!", he snaps

Helion snorts. "Is that rule official?"

Arrogant bastard. "What's going on?", he asks

"My spies spotted an army approaching. A thousand soldiers. From Xian." Helion falls into step besides him.

Jurian curses. "How long do we have?"

"One hour at most, so we have to hurry."

"One hour?", Jurian asks, "That's plenty of time. We usually get ten minutes of warning at most."

"And how is it you're still alive?" Helion raises his eyebrows.

Jurian calls out orders to a few soldiers who cross their path, then turns back to the Fae male. "I found that magic makes people lazy. Without it, you have to be quicker and more inventive." He smiles. "It's why you Fae don't stand a chance against us."

Helion snorts. "Some Fae would disagree."

"I know. I killed a few of them."

Helion huffs a laugh. "I'll get my soldiers ready and pass the message on to that Sangravahn general." He grins. "I bet that we'll be ready before you are."

"You'll lose", Jurian tells him and Helion winnows away.

Jurian wins the bet.

After fifteen minutes, his soldiers are ready, years of drills paying off. The Fae take twice as long and by the time they are done, Jurian already has a strategy planned out.

They set a trap. The humans take up position on a hill within sight of the camp, the Fae camp hidden from sight by a glamour Helion cast. To any approaching enemies, they look like easy prey. (Fae arrogance is so predictable and never fails to serve Jurian's goals.)

The enemies approach and Jurian draws his sword. From his place at the front line, he can't see if their Fae allies are ready yet. He calls out an encouragement to his soldiers.

Then, the two armies collide.

The battle is brutal, but they usually are. The Fae are faster and stronger and they have magic. But Jurians' soldiers have spent their entire lives fighting them and know what they are doing. So they hold their ground.

Still, the minutes until their Fae allies join the fray seem to last forever. As Jurian ordered, they wait hidden in a small forest until their enemies are too caught up in the bloodshed to watch their surroundings anymore. Then, they strike.

After that, the battle ends quickly. The Xian army is surrounded and outmatched. They die and prove once again that they are just as mortal as the humans they despise so much.

Finally, the few remaining enemies surrender and Jurian wipes the blood of his hands

The battle may be over, but as usual, the real work only begins. Jurian meets with his captains, helps organise the clean-up, decides what to do with enemy survivors (Miryam would not approve of his decision) and talks to wounded soldiers.

He is in the middle of another meeting, this time with some of his scouts (no sign of any more enemies), when a very familiar voice calls out from behind him.

"Jurian!"

He only barely manages to turn before Miryam all but jumps into his arms.

"I missed you", she whispers, "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too." Jurian grins and tries not to be disappointed when Miryam lets go of him. "How was Prythian?"

"Summer, Winter and Night are on our side now." She nods towards a blonde female who's standing a few steps behind her. "That's Mor, the Night Court's new emissary."

Jurian inclines his head in greeting, then turns back to Miryam, who is frowning.

"What is that?", she asks and nods towards his left arm

"Nothing?" Jurian angles his body so that Miryam can no longer see the injury.

She grabs his arm and forces him to turn around. Frowns at the cut on his shoulder.

"I'm gone for what, two weeks, and you think that you can get away with running around injured? Come to my tent."

"Miryam...", Jurian mutters pleadingly, but she just shoots him a cool look.

Jurian doesn't argue further. And if he's being honest, he doesn't mind a chance to get some time alone with her.

\----

After getting Jurian's shoulder cleaned and bandaged, Miryam spends the entire day helping around the camp. Organising healers, getting Fae and humans to work side by side, easing any arguments that break out between them. Whenever she isn't putting out fires left and right, she rushes back to the healer's tent to help with the injured Fae and humans.

But even with the chaos surrounding her, she feels more at home than she has in weeks. The courts she visited were beautiful, sometimes she even enjoyed her stays - but here is where she belongs.

Eventually, night falls and Miryam gets called to the meeting tent in the middle of the camp. Tia smiles at her and a blue-skinned faerie from Sangravah (her red aura marking her as a fire-wielder) inclines her head as she enters.

Miryam returns both greetings and is just about to take her place next to Jurian when another person enters the room. A dark-skinned High Fae male (light magic as well as something else that Miryam can't quite identify) from the Day Court - Helion Spellcleaver. His attention goes to Miryam and lingers, his eyes widening in something like surprise.

Then, he bows deeply and takes Miryam's hand to plant a kiss on her fingers. "A pleasure to meet you, My Lady", he says.

"Could we focus on the matter at hand?", Jurian asks sharply enough to make Miryam frown at him.

Helion just smiles knowingly and releases Miryam's hand. But even as the discussion returns to the aftermath of the battle, he keeps glancing at her, keeps smiling and flirting. She isn't sure if she's flattered by his obvious interest or if it makes her nervous.

Once all pressing concerns are dealt with, Miryam gives another summary of her time in Prythian. Then, the meeting is officially over.

Helion winks at her. "Had I known that the emissary would be such a charming lady, I would have gotten my uncle go invite you instead of skipping the diplomatic foreplay and just joining the Alliance. But maybe you could make it up to me by escorting me back to my camp."

Miryam stifles a sigh. She had hoped to have a moment alone with Jurian after they hardly saw each other in weeks, but there is no way to politely turn Helion down.

Jurian glares at the Fae. "Can't find the way on your own?", he asks, voice low.

"Why would I want to go alone if I can have such a lovely escort?"

Jurian snorts and storms off without another word, leaving Miryam alone with Helion, much to her annoyance.

Helion chuckles and extends an arm to her. "Shall we?"

Reluctantly, Miryam takes his arm. (She can't quite shake the memory of what happened the last time a powerful High Fae male was this interested in her.)

"No need to worry", Helion whispers to her as they walk through the camp, "There are plenty of people who willingly go to bed with me. I have no need or interest to force an unwilling female. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable" He lets go of her arm and laughs softly. "I just couldn't resist the opportunity to piss off our dear general a little. He is most jealous."

"Jurian?", Miryam asks, trying to mask her relief, "We are just friends. You must be mistaken."

Helion laughs again, but doesn't comment. Instead, he says, "I set up wards around the camp, you know?"

Miryam nods. She can see them, golden strings forming a net encompassing the camp

"Do you know anything of wards and spells, Lady?", Helion asks.

Miryam shakes her head, something like fear twisting her guts. Why is he asking her this?

Helion continues, "At Day Court, spells are our speciality. Yet none of us have ever reached the same mastery as the members of the witchers' Guild. You ever met a witch?"

"Yes." She just barely manages to keep her voice calm. "In my... former owner's court, there were a few."

She offers no comment beyond that, doesn't say another word on her past, either. Hardly anyone knows who owned her before she escaped and she told no one, not even Jurian, anything else about her past. She locked it away, she moved past it and she will not speak of it. Bad enough that it still hounds her nightmares.

Helion nods thoughtfully. "A pity that most of them fight for the Loyalists. Having just one witch on our side could prove to be invaluable." The smile he gives her is far too knowing. "But I shouldn't keep you. I'm sure you are tired."

Miryam just barely manages a nod and a goodbye before she flees. He knows. Oh Cauldron, Helion knows.

She doesn't seek out Jurian like she planned. Instead, she hides in her tent.

That night, she can't sleep (which, in itself is hardly unusual since she can't remember ever sleeping through the night). But her thoughts keep drifting to that cursed book.

Just past midnight, she finally gets up and lights a candle. Months and months ago, she hid the book in her mattress. Now, she takes it our for the first time. The black leather seems to eat up the light around her.

Miryam takes a deep breath and reaches out to open the book. Except that it stubbornly remains closed.

"Come on", Miryam hisses, pulling on the cover. It doesn't move.

She considers hurling the book through the tent. Instead, she does something she never did before: She willingly calls upon her power.

Placing her hand on the cover, she imagines the magic flowing from her fingers. "Open", she whispers.

The book doesn't follow her order. But she notices two strings of light, wrapped tightly around the book. Frowning in concentration, Miryam imagines reaching out to untie them.

The strings begin moving, ever so slowly. Then, the book opens. The first page, fortunately, is written in an alphabet Miryam knows.

"All living beings", she reads, "are divided into three tiers by the Mother. On the lowest tier are humans and common animals, made magic- and soulless by the Mother, their lives short and their understanding limited. They exist solely to be ruled by their betters."

Miryam slams the book shut.

It takes her ten minutes to decide against throwing it into the fire. This time, at least, she manages to open it faster.

"On the second tier are the Fae", the text continues, "as well as any magical beasts. They are given magic and a soul and, therefore, the right to rule. Yet, above them all stand witches and witchers, those blessed by the Mother with the ability to see the strings that hold this world together - the strings of fate - and, by influencing them, make and unmake the world. They speak the language of the universe and, so, it bends to their will."

Well... If that isn't a bunch of elitist crap.

Miryam moves on to the next page, unable to stand another word of this.

"Spells can be put into three categories", she reads, "First grade spells draw their power solely from the words and, therefore, can be used even by the lowest of creatures (although, of course, humans and animals lack the necessary understanding to wield them)."

Miryam really, truly hates this book.

"Second grade spells require power from the wielder, making them accessible to any with magic in their blood. But third grade spells, the most powerful ones, can only be cast by those blessed by the Mother, as they require both the power to bend the strings of fate to ones will and, often, the ability to draw on external sources of power (ranging from archaic tools over natural phenomena to other people's life force)."

Miryam frowns. This sounds like not all spells require Sacrifices. Yet, the members of the Guild in Ravenia's court hardly ever cast a spell without Sacrificing humans.

She almost misses the note at the bottom of the page: "Note that for all three categories, should the wielder overstep his power reserves, the magic will demand both his life and soul as a price."

So if she makes a mistake, she will end up as a pile of ashes. Lovely.

Miryam wonders if the Cauldron hates her, or if it just shows a really sick sense of humour by making her a witch. Couldn't she have gotten healing powers? Or maybe elemental - honestly, anything but being a witch.

But if it can help her people, she will try to understand that strange power of hers. (Really, there is little she _wouldn't_ do to save the slaves left in the Black Land.)

Flitting through the pages, she starts looking for the first grade spells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of this? Do you like the story and the way I write the characters? I`d love some feedback :)


	9. Chapter 9

## Chapter 9

When Rhys opens the door, the first thing he notices is that he isn't alone in his room.

His hand shoots to his dagger, he mentally checks his shields. In the Illyrian camps, a few of his fellow soldiers liked ambushing him and the others and Rhys trusts the High Fae of the Hewn City no more than the Illyrians.

"Who's there?", he calls into the room and pulls the door shut behind him.

"Me", a soft voice replies and Az steps out of the shadows.

Rhys curses. "Shit, Az. You want me to have a heart attack?"

"Your father can't know I'm here. He forbid me from seeking you out."

Rhys frowns. "Is everything alright? Are you..."

"I'm fine", Az says, but there are shadows in his eyes that weren't there when they last saw each other. What is his father forcing him to do? Az continues, "It's you I'm worried about."

"Why?", Rhys asks, a cold knot forming in his stomach.

"Your father. He feels threatened by you - by us. You are almost as powerful as he is, and with us as your friends... He fears you might try taking the throne."

Rhys nods slowly. He should have seen it coming. He pushed his father too far - their argument a week ago was likely the last straw.

"What about you, then? Mor and Cass? Is he after you too?"

Az shakes his head. "I'm too... _useful_." He practically snarls the word. "He won't harm me. And Mor is safe on the Continent. I don't know why, but that emissary, Miryam, has taken an interest in her and your father won't risk crossing her. Cass might be in danger, though."

Rhys nods, relief and worry warring in him. "What can I do?"

"Keep a low profile", Az says, "You father will likely send you and Cass to battle at the coast. Whatever you do, don't draw any more attention to yourself."

Without another word, he vanishes, leaving Rhys alone in his empty room.

\----

Three days after Drakon's council voted in favour of joining the war, their decision remains secret, both to their allies and enemies.

Drakon sits next to Sinna and watches another group of soldiers try out for the army

With the looming war, there are plenty of volunteers who wish to fight and support Erithia's standing army. (An army that, on its own, is rather impressive already. Not the biggest on the Continent, not by far, but well-trained and sizeable enough to be significant in this war.)

"That one's good", Sinna comments and gives an approving nod to a soldier who just completed his trial flight.

Neither Drakon nor Sinna are strictly needed for this, but as Prince and General of Erithia, they are expected to watch at least a part of the proceedings. Besides, they both have a personal connection to one of today's participants.

Steps approach and Drakon turns around to find his emissary standing behind him. The male bows and says, "Ravenia sent another letter demanding we choose a side. And the Alliance wants to send an emissary. They heard you are raising your armies."

Drakon sighs. "Can you delay them again? We only need two more days."

"Not without reason. You know the Queen."

Yes, Drakon does. He thinks of the statues on the mountain where the Seraphim honour their dead, of the family he lost.

"Why does she even want to marry me?", he asks, "Honestly, I don't get it. She doesn't even seem to like me - which I take as a compliment - and I never made a secret of my opinion on slavery."

His emissary just shrugs. "I don't know, Your Grace. But I could...", he hesitates. "If I let it leak that you have trouble controlling your council, it could work, but it would..."

"Make me look like an incompetent fool in front of the entire Continent?", Drakon asks wryly, "Do it, then."

The idea doesn't sit well with him, but at least the impression won't last long. Because in two days, if all goes well, they will take the Callian Pass from Rask. It is one of the only passages across the mountain range that divides the Continent and easily one of the most important strategic locations in this war. Unfortunately, it has belonged to Rast for the past eight centuries.

So they are really going to need the moment of surprise on their side.

Drakon has already written the letter declaring war on the Loyalists and asking the Alliance to be allowed to join as well as a rather personal and insulting note addressed to Ravenia, but they won't be sent until the last moment.

His emissary bows and leaves. Drakon turns back to the try-outs.

"Have I told you already that I love your plan? Taking the Callian Pass from Rask by attacking without warning", Sinna says, "Insane, but sneaky. Hard to believe you came up with it."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence", Drakon mutters.

Truth is, he doesn't really feel good about invading Rask without warning. It's not the honourable thing to do. But, as Sinna told him in her usual brisk style, honour doesn't win wars, especially if your enemy has none.

They watch the next would-be soldiers in silence, until Sinna says, "You know, now that we are officially going to war, we should probably try to cut any unnecessary drains to our resources."

"Such as?" Drakon has a bad feeling about where this is going.

"Such as having our spies look for that slave girl you talked to _once_. If I didn't know better, I'd say the rumours are true and you have a thing for her."

Drakon glares. "She was a child and completely terrified of me. Do you honestly think..." He cuts himself off and shakes his head. "I just want to thank her. Because, you know, she's the reason I'm not married to Ravenia right now."

He can imagine the girl won't be terribly interested in ever seeing him again. But Drakon needs to know she's alright. After that, he's going to leave and never seek her out again.

"Well, regardless, looking for one half-Fae female without even knowing her name is both hopeless and a waste of resources."

"Fine", Drakon snaps, "I'll lower the priority of her case." He nods towards the try-outs. "How long until it's Nephelle's turn?"

"Two more", Sinna replies, suddenly tense.

Nephelle wants to join the army - wants to fight for her country and for human freedom. Badly.

But the harsh truth is, she would never have even made it through the examination that precedes the try-outs. She is too short, her right wing too small to pass the physical requirements. So Sinna asked Drakon to pull some strings for her lover. (Abuse of power, technically. But Nephelle is his friend and it isn't a _big_ abuse. Still morally wrong. Why does he always end up in these situations?)

"She's going to make it", Sinna says, a stubborn set to her jaw.

Drakon nods, even though he knows Nephelle's chances are slim. It's not that he doesn't believe in her - Nephelle is probably the most strong-willed Seraphim he ever met - but Sinna told him that she never managed to reach the requirements in training. Not once.

She still wants to try, though.

Drakon watches as the a group of competitors exit the ring and claps politely. Nephelle steps into the arena with the next group. She holds her head high, wings drawn tightly to her body.

The beginning of the try out goes fine. Nephelle hits the centre of the target each time, surpassing the requirements by far. But then, the main part of the try out begins. Flying two miles, carrying weapons and a Seraphim shield.

Nephelle is barely able to take off with the shield. Once she is in the air, her smaller right wing can't support the weight and she keeps almost falling out of the air.

It is almost painful to watch. Because Nephelle refuses to give up. Even as her feet almost brush the ground, even as everyone but her has long finished, she refuses to give up.

"Come on", Sinna whispers.

But Nephelle doesn't make it. She doesn't even reach the end of the race. Two rounds before the finish line, her right wing gives in and she falls to the ground. Sinna is on her feet in an instant, rushing for her.

Nephelle just drops her shield and weapons and walks out of the arena, wings lowered and dragging over the ground behind her. Sinna runs after her.

The arena is silent. No one laughs. Not a single person.

Drakon wishes he could run after Nephelle and Sinna as well. But he has to stay at least a moment longer. He is the Prince and can't just leave whenever he feels like it. So he remains to watch one more group. Then, he thanks all participants and excuses himself.

He finds Sinna and Nephelle in a small room behind the arena. As he enters, Nephelle just withdraws her hand from Sinna's.

"All I want is to fight for what I believe in and _I don't even get a chance_!"

Nephelle is crying, he realises with a start. He doesn't think he ever saw her cry before, not even when some people whispered 'cripple' behind her back. (Not that anyone ever called her that twice, at least not when Drakon or Sinna were around to hear.)

Drakon knocks on the door and the females dart around to him. He smiles at Nephelle.

"If you ask me, you'd be wasted in the army, anyways", he says.

Nephelle doesn't smile back at him. She looks so... hopeless. "Yes, maybe I can wash the soldier's clothes. That's about all I'm good for."

Sinna opens her mouth to object, but Drakon beats her to it, "Come on, now, you don't believe that. You know more about nature and geography than anyone else and I've seen your drawings. You're brilliant."

"So I'll just draw our enemies to death?"

"No”, Drakon says, "I was thinking you'd be exceptionally well-suited to being a cartographer. For that, you need some prior experience because, believe it or not, it's actually harder than wielding a sword, so we've had a hard time finding people for it. Maybe you can help us out."

Nephelle blinks at him. Then, slowly, she begins to smile

"Yes", she says, "I think I'd like that."

"Great", Drakon says, "saves me the headache of finding anyone else to do the job."

It's good to see that sometimes, his plans actually work.

\----

Miryam barely manages to talk to Jurian the day after the battle. Well, they talk plenty, but only about the camp organisation.

So after spending the next night trying to figure out the 'Language of the Universe' (which makes Continental politics look easy by comparison) she invites herself along on a patrol she knows Jurian is leading.

They aren't exactly alone, but the nine soldiers wo accompany them are kind enough to keep their distance. Miryam with her Fae heritage can still hear their conversation, but she doubts they understand what her and Jurian are talking about.

"Did you know that Mor started training?", Jurian asks.

Miryam nods and leans forward to pat her horse's neck. "She told me. She thinks that you're an excellent teacher."

"I could teach you, too", Jurian says a bit too casually. She`d bet that he only brought up Mor to suggest training again.

"It's a nice offer, Jur, but I neither want nor need to fight."

Miryam does carry a dagger, but that's just to keep Jurian from worrying. He hates that she doesn't know how to defend herself, but _she_ hates the idea of killing another person. (There are a few people she'd make an exception for, but she doubts that she'll ever be in the position to kill Ravenia or Artax.)

"We're in the middle of a war", Jurian says drily.

"And I'm a healer. And a member of the Alliance's council, an emissary. There are several ways to contribute to the war effort and not all of them involve wielding a sword."

Jurian sighs. "I know that. You think I don't know? And I don't want you to fight in battles, but... learn to defend yourself. Just in case." When Miryam still hesitates, he adds, "Please."

How can she say no to that?

"Alright. But just the basics." At least it means she gets to spend more time with Jurian.

"Great. Let's meet at dawn each day. One hour."

Miryam smiles in spite of herself. "You really did plan that, didn't you?"

"Never go to battle unprepared. I even had two back up plans prepared." Jurian laughs. "You agreed more quickly than I thought."

Miryam smiles. Cauldron, she really missed him. (If she's being honest, it's not the camp that has become home, but rather the man besides her. She wonders if that's what love feels like.)

At that moment, she notices a movement in the bushes next to them. She lightly pulls at her horses' reins to get it to slow down and slides out of the saddle. Something is hanging between two trees, something that's moving, but she can't quite make it out.

"What's that?", Miryam asks.

Jurian frowns. "I can't see anything."

For a second, Miryam thinks that this is her magic playing tricks on her, that she once again sees something that no one else can see. But then, she remembers that she can see much further than Jurian thanks to her mixed heritage and he likely just can't make out the movement she noticed.

Without another word, Miryam rushes off into the bushes. She can hear branches snap behind her as Jurian follows her. After a few steps, she reaches a net, hanging between two trees. Inside, a falcon is caught, its feather a beautiful shade of burnt red.

"It's a trap", Jurian says from behind her, "Likely set up by some peasants."

Miryam nods and draws her dagger. Carefully, she approaches the falcon.

"Easy", she whispers, "I want to help you."

"You'll get your eyes hacked out", Jurian warns.

But the falcon holds perfectly still as Miryam reaches out, although its amber eyes remain fixed on the dagger as she carefully begins to cut through the net trapping it. As more of the strands come loose, the falcon begins to sway. It screeches and tries to flap its wings. Hastily, Miryam holds out an arm for it to hold onto. (Not her best idea. She's sure the falcon doesn't mean to hurt her, but its claws still cut through her sleeve and into her arm.) Miryam grits her teeth and cuts the last bit of rope

"What now?", Jurian asks, "Its wing is broken, it won't be able to fly or survive like this."

Indeed, the falcon's left wing is hanging in an odd angle. Miryam bites her lip. The idea of this bird never being able to fly again is horribly sad. (When Miryam was younger, she dreamed of growing wings and flying far away.)

"I'm taking it back to the camp. Maybe I can heal it."

She shoots the net a mournful look. What if the person who set is up is close to starvation? She finds a gold mark in her pocket and puts it on the ground next to the ruined net.

Jurian shakes his head. "You're incorrigible. Here." He pulls off one of his leather gloves and hands it to Miryam. "Put that on or you won't be able to hold a blade tomorrow for training."

"How thoughtful." Miryam grins at him.

She puts on the glove and lets the falcon climb on her other arm. She can tell the bird is trying to be careful, but it still hurts when it pulls its talons out of her arm and hops on her other hand.

"It must have been trained", Jurian says.

Miryam is sure it isn't. But it's better if Jurian thinks so, so she just nods and turns back towards their horses, the falcon surprisingly heavy on her arm.

\----

Rhys didn't think he'd be this nervous. After all these years of training, after everything he survived in the Illyrian mountains, he never thought his first battle would scare him this much.

Cass is nervous, too. Rhys doubts any of the other Illyrians in their group notice, though. Because Cassian is all brave words and laughter. He jokes around and makes light-hearted comments. But Rhys knows Cass well enough to see that the louder he is, the more nervous he feels deep down.

It is not Rhys who leads this assault, but Devlon. And although Rhys knows that this was meant to be a slight by his father, ha thanks the Cauldron for it.

His first battle. He could not imagine being the one leading it.

A whistle sounds, warning them that a group of enemies is approaching.

"Remember to keep your head down", Rhys whispers to Cassian, Azriel's warning ringing in his ears.

Cass presses his lips together in annoyance. Rhys can see he hates the idea of not fighting to his fullest, of risking their companions' lives in doing so. But he nods.

From their waiting place on the mountain side, Rhys can now see the enemy approach, walking through the valley in neat, organised lines. They wait until the soldiers are well below them. Then, a horn blast sound, giving the sign to attack.

Rhys flares his wings and leaps into the air.

His first kill is a High Fae male from Spring, who looks almost surprised as he collapses. (It is not really his first kill, of course. He killed plenty during the Rite. Still, battle feels different. More chaotic. Both more and less horrific at the same time.)

Rhys drops deep into battle calm. Any emotions become distant, irrelevant. But even as he kills his way through battle lines, even as his power is a roaring ocean beneath him, he keeps a tight hold on his magic. Doesn't use it beyond basic shielding.

The first minutes go well. The Illyrians outnumber their opponents and they have the moment of surprise on their side.

But then, the tide starts turning.

The Hybern Fae have magic - more than their spies reported and far more than the Illyrians. One High Fae lifts his hand, grey power flares and a dozen Illyrians turn to dust. Rhys creates shields, uses his magic to protect as many soldiers as he can. But still, he doesn't use it to smash their opponents to dust. Still, he uses nothing but his sword to attack.

_Do not draw attention to yourself._

Around him, the corpses add up. Loyalist Fae, but just as many Illyrians.

Cassian makes the decision a second before Rhys does.

His siphons flare, red power blasting a hole into the enemy lines. A second later, Rhys follows. He stretches out a hand and darkness leashes out. Soldiers start screaming.

It is over in the span of minutes.

Over the corpses, Rhys exchanges a look with Cassian. Both of them are wide-eyed and panting.

Rhys spends the following hours helping with the wounded, collecting the dead. He wonders how many of these soldiers might still be alive if he had acted sooner, if he had not tried to avoid his father's wrath. He tries to memorise the faces of the dead. He is sure they will haunt him for the rest of his life.

And silently, he swears to never let his fear of his father stop him from doing what's right again.

\----

Miryam names the falcon Kiel, because that's what its cries sound like. (Helion tells her that the name means 'free' in Old Landian and Miryam nods like she knew that already.)

It is the middle of the night. Miryam once again lit her candle and sits perched over the book. Kiel is watching her, his amber eyes glowing in the dark. Miryam feeds the bird a strap of meat she got from the kitchen.

"What do you think?", she asks, "Should I do this?"

"Kieeel", the falkon replies, which could mean anything ranging from 'Why are you asking me, you stupid human' to 'I want more meat'. Miryam feeds him another strap of meat and gets up

"Wish me luck", she says. (At this point, she truly hopes that animals understand her. Otherwise, she is making a complete fool of herself.)

The spell is easy, the book claims. Well, it is still second grade, because the book's former owner deemed first grade spells too simple to write them down. Miryam has memorised the words, the instructions. The book claims that for a spell as simple as this, no one with witch blood would need anything but the words, but Miryam would rather not bet her life on that so she follows the instructions by the letter.

She takes out a bit of chalk and uses it to draw a circle on the ground, symbols lining its edges. Then, she puts up four candles and adds a few bone shards for good measure.

She steps into the circle and lights the candles. Then, she begins speaking.

The words taste strange on her tongue, burn in her throat. All around her, the strings start glowing more brightly. New ones appear, wrapping around her.

And suddenly, Miryam understands why they call it 'Language of the Universe'. Because it is the language of the strings and each word Miryam speaks makes them move, like she is giving them orders. Her power is thrumming through her, light dances through the room and creates a net wrapping around the tent.

It is beautiful.

But Miryam doesn't mean to actually set up a ward around her tent - it would be hard to explain - so she starts reciting the second spell, the one that's supposed to break the wards. Indeed, the net begins to loosen, lines withdrawing with her every word. It is far easier than she thought. Just like that, the wards are gone.

But her power still rises. The fabric of the tent starts flapping on a fathom wind, Kiel shrikes.

Miryam panics. She tries to call her power back, to clamp down her hold on it once again, but it won't obey her. The flames of the candles flicker higher, until they almost reach the tent's ceiling, trapping her in a ring of flames.

"Stop", she whispers, "Please, stop."

It doesn't. Miryam feels like she's standing in the middle of a river, her magic tugging at her like a strong current and she cannot make it _stop._ She pushes against the magic. It pushes back and for a moment, Miryam thinks that she's going to lose this battle.

But then, her magic gives in.

It rushes away from her in a wave, further and further until Miryam can breathe again. The candles flicker and go out. She lets herself slide to the ground.

Her head hurts, but at least she doesn't feel like her body is on fire. At least it went better than that first time. Miryam is almost relieved.

Until shouts start ringing out all through the camp. She scrambles to her feet, stares at the circle on the ground, undeniable proof of what she did.

She grabs the candles and bones and shoves them into a bag that she flings under her bed. Hands shaking, she puts the book back into its hiding place and wipes away the chalk. Then, she rushes out of her tent.

Soldiers are running around outside. Miryam catches one of them by the arm. "What happened?", she asks

"I don't know, but there was this tremor. Really creepy." He shakes his head. "Magic really is a curse."

A good summary. Miryam lets him go and runs off to the centre of the commotion, which is where she'll likely find Jurian. Indeed, he is standing in the centre of a group of soldiers, trying to calm them. When he sees Miryam, he waves her closer.

"Thank the Cauldron, you're here", he whispers, "Someone shattered our wards, the soldiers are panicking. I need you to help calm them."

Only then does Miryam notice that the strings forming a net over the camp are gone.

Oh Mother. She did this. And the worst part is, it wasn't even hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me tell you, trying to keep to canon is hard! Like the fact that Drakon is looking for Miryam for three years without ever finding or meeting her (which I'm having a bit of a hard time explaining, but hey, just about a year to go)  
> Well, anyways, this part was rather slow. Next time: Rhys has trouble with his father (what's new), Mor gets used to life on the Continent and Drakon goes through with his plan


	10. Chapter 10

## Chapter 10

Lying on her back in the mud, Mor curses loudly. Her sword has flown out of her reach and her wrist is throbbing.

Jurian laughs and holds out a hand to help her up. Mor grimaces, but lets him pull her to her feet.

"Bad looser?", he asks.

"No."

She doesn't know why she expected to win. Maybe because he's mortal and she's Fae. (She is pretty sure that's what the mortal soldiers call 'Fae arrogance'.)

Jurian says, "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Actually, if you want to get anywhere in life, you shouldn't be too good at loosing."

Mor nods and picks up her sword from where it is lying on the ground. Her wrist hurts and her arms are burning, but it's a good kind of pain.

"Again", she says.

Jurian bows mockingly. "As my lady commands."

About half a minute later, Mor is on the ground again. And again. Again. After an hour, she is covered in bruises, bone-tired and officially cured of any kind of Fae arrogance. Still, she feels better than she has in a while.

"You're good", Jurian says and hands her a bottle of water.

"You knocked me on my ass more times than I can count."

"And you kept getting up."

With a start, Mor realises that this was a test - to see if she'd give up at the first challenge. She considers telling him her life had more hardships than he can imagine. But that would only get her pity, when right now, she is on the best way to earn his respect.

Mor puts the bottle down. "Again", she demands

The Commander laughs and shakes his head. "You know, I just happen to be this camp's leader. I have a patrol to lead."

"I could come along."

Jurian snorts. "Not happening."

That's enough to get Mor's temper to rise. She doesn't need to be coddled.

"So I can learn how to fight, but I'm not allowed to actually do it?" She glares at him. "Why? Because I'm a _female_?"

"No, because I just kicked your ass more times than I can count and I'd rather not have to explain to Miryam how you died on my watch." He grins at her. "You hold out five minutes against me. Then you can join battle."

He walks off without another word. Mor curses. For a moment, she considers looking for someone else to train with, but her body hurts so badly that she isn't sure she'll even be able to hold a sword. So, instead, she goes looking for Miryam.

Just as she is about to enter her tent, she hears a male voice coming from within.

"- expect me to believe this."

"I don't really care what you believe, Lord", Miryam replies, her voice surprisingly cold. Mor only heard her take that tone once, back in the Court of Nightmares. "The fact remains that you're mistaken."

_Lie_. Mor can almost taste it on her tongue, bitter and burning. She's dying to know what they are talking about, but Miryam is on the best way to become her friend and eavesdropping on a private conversation would be a breach of trust.

So she enters the tent, making sure to make lots of noise as she does. Miryam still spins around like she's expecting an attack.

"Hey", Mor says lightly, "Everything alright?"

"Sure", Helion replies evenly, "We were just discussing the latest issue with the camp wards."

_Truth_. Mor has to keep from frowning. What is it about the camp wards that had them arguing like this?

Miryam says, "We were just done, though."

"For now." Helion smiles at her, bows slightly and leaves.

"What's the matter between you?", Mor asks, "You have something going?"

"Ew. Absolutely not." Miryam wrinkles her nose and returns to sorting through some herbs. Her falcon lets out a scream from where it's sitting on the table.

"Good. If you don't, I might." Mor winks at her.

Miryam lets out a startled laugh. "Really? Isn't he a bit too old?"

"Three hundred isn't that old for an immortal. Besides, he certainly doesn't _look_ old."

Mor would have fun with the heir of the Day Court. Nothing beyond fun, though. (Not that she'd ever admit it, not to Miryam, not to anyone. She can barely admit it to herself.)

"In that case, I wish the two of you fun." Miryam grins. "Although you might wish to wait until you aren't covered in bruises anymore." She takes out a small tin of salve and tosses it to Mor. "Apply it every two hours, then it should be fine tomorrow."

"Have I told you already that you're brilliant?", Mor asks.

That earns her a smile. But then, Miryam asks, "What even happened to you? Did you get trampled by a horse?"

"I trained. With Jurian."

"Oh." Miryam winces..

"He's quite handsome as well, isn't he?", Mor teases.

Miryam tenses ever so slightly and Mor laughs.

"I knew it!", she yelps, "You and him!"

It's quite obvious, really. Mor doesn't even need her gift of truth to see what's going on between them. She doubts that there's anyone in this camp who didn't notice Miryam and Jurian dancing around each other. From what she gathered, there's even some money to be won by betting on when one of them will finally make a move.

"No, I don't... I mean..." Miryam blushes. "I don't know. Have you ever been in love?"

"No", Mor replies honestly, "I had crushes, and I had sex, but never anything that went beyond it." (And she won't ever have it. It's not possible, not for her. Not with her parents.) "What does it feel like?"

Miryam shrugs. "Like home", she says simply, "But I don`t know, it`s not that easy."

"Please don't tell me you didn't notice how Jurian looks at you. Because you'd be the only one."

But Miryam shakes her head. "You don't understand."

Mor sits down on Miryam's desk, making Kiel flap his wings and shriek at her. "Then explain it to me."

Because Mor would give quite a lot to have someone look at her the way Jurian looks at Miryam. To have someone who's home to her. (Not possible, she reminds herself.)

"I can't", Miryam says.

It occurs to Mor that while she may consider Miryam a friend, there's very little she actually knows about the female. She doesn't even know who was her... owner. But given that she was a slave, it's easy to guess what might be the issue.

"What happened?", Mor asks softly.

Miryam just shakes her head. She continues sorting through her herbs. Mor sincerely hopes none of them are poisonous, because she doubts that Miryam is paying any attention to what she's doing.

"Talking helps, you know?", Mor says softly, "I know it's hard, but believe me, it does help. I don't think I would have made it without my friends to rely on."

Miryam spins around. "I made a choice, Morrigan." Her voice sounds strained. "I choose to leave it all behind, to start over as a person who I choose to be. But going back there..." She shakes her head. "Don't ever ask me about this again. Please."

Mor doesn't think this is a good solution, or any kind of solution, really. (But who is she to judge? After all, she still hasn't talked to Az, still hasn't told anyone the truth about herself). Besides, she owes Miryam.

"Alright", she says, "I won't ask."

\----

The mountains around the Callian Pass reach up to the sky. As old as this world and massive enough to make Drakon feel tiny.

Which isn't good. Because today, he's aiming for 'self-confident Prince who is about to lead his people to victory', not 'scared boy awaiting his first battle'.

So far, he is rather confident it works. At least the day-long flight from their army camp in Erithia to the Pass where they now set up their camp went just fine. Still, he's glad when he slips into the tent they use for their strategy meeting and gets a short break from the looks of his soldiers, who all turn to him for leadership.

"Everything ready?", he asks.

"Yes", Sinna replies, "We'll attack just past midnight like we planned. I'm only waiting for Nephelle and the other cartographers to deliver their report."

"Great." Drakon lets himself drop onto a cushion lying on the ground. "We haven't decided which flank I'm leading yet."

Sinna shoots him a look. "None. You stay here."

"What?" Drakon sits up straighter. "The last time a ruler of Erithia stayed behind in battle was 532 years ago and the male in question couldn't _fly_ because he'd lost both his wings in an accident. There's no way I'm not fighting."

Sinna gives him her best glare, the one that usually makes her recruits run. "You're 26 years old and haven't fought in a single battle before. If you fight, you'll have to take a leading position and that's not happening."

"And here I was, thinking I'd been trained by the best." Drakon rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Sinna. I won't be alone. There are plenty of seasoned warriors, including you, who can make sure I don't mess up."

Drakon wishes he was as confident as he sounds. Truth is, he barely slept last night because he kept thinking of the battle to come.

Still, Sinna shakes her head. "Did you already name an heir, Drakon?", she asks sharply, "Because if you die. Your bloodline ends with you. And I'm not risking that, so you're staying at the camp."

Drakon would love to say that he isn't needed, but unfortunately, Sinna has a point. He doesn't have an heir and his death might mean civil war. In a few centuries, perhaps, the system he's trying to build might work without a Prince, but now, he's taken but the first step of many on that way.

Still, he shakes his head. "How could I ask these people to fight and die for me if I'm not willing to do the same?"

"You're not fighting and that's final!"

For a moment, they just stare at each other. It occurs to Drakon that he never stood up to Sinna before. Likely a side effect of serving under the female for five years.

And maybe that's part of the problem. Because he's beginning to understand that leading a territory doesn't work if no one ever does as he says. There seems to be a fine line between listening to advice and not being taken seriously by anyone.

Fortunately, Nephelle chooses that moment to enter the tent, making Sinna spin around.

"Is everything alright?", the General asks immediately, watching the smaller female carefully.

Nephelle stands up on her toes to press a kiss to her lover's nose and whispers something along the lines of 'stop worrying, you mother hen' in her ear.

Then, she fishes a bunch of maps from her pocket and puts them down on the makeshift table. "The information I was able to gather on the Pass. Which is more than anyone ever found before because", she grins, "I discovered a passage through the mountains. It's a cave, likely left behind by river that dried out. Not big enough for an army, but a smaller group of soldiers could get through."

Sinna frowns, then her face brightens. "I'll lead a small task force through that cave. Once these Raskan soldiers are distracted by the main battle, we'll be able to attack them from behind."

"No", Drakon says.

Sinna puts down the map she was studying to look at him. "What?"

Drakon stretches his wings behind him. "I'll take the task force. You don't want me to lead the army? Fine, I understand that. So I'm taking the task force and you lead the main battle."

"I told you, you're not fighting", Sinna says.

"Yes, and I'm grateful for the _advice_." Drakon puts emphasis on the last word. "But I hope you'll understand that I'm choosing to disregard it this time."

"This is stupid", Sinna says, "You-"

"Stop it", Drakon snaps, "How am I supposed to lead if no one ever listens to me? If even you refuse to accept my decisions?" He shakes his head. "You told me I'd be a great ruler almost a year ago. But you still treat me like a boy serving in your army. You don't trust me, not even with the most basic things."

For a moment, Sinna looks stunned. "That's not... Of couse I trust you."

"Then start acting like it!"

Sinna turns to Nephelle, but the female just shrugs a bit helplessly. From the way she looks, she's torn between siding with her lover and agreeing with Drakon, so she opts for silence.

After a moment of silence, Sinna says, "Then I'd suggest you take the main battle while I lead the task force."

Drakon is stunned. This may just be the first time he's seen Sinna give in in an argument.

"Why?", he asks, trying to sound confident.

"If you mess up, there will be someone around to clean up the mess. And if things go badly, you'll likely make it out alive."

Now, Nephelle is frowning, failing to fully conceal her worry.

Sinna notices, too, and grins at her lover. "I'll be fine. This is hardly the most dangerous mission I've ever led."

Drakon considers her words for a moment, then he nods. "Then we do it your way."

The idea of commanding the main battle, of being in charge of thousands of soldiers, is extremely unsettling. But they're at war and he'd better get used to it.

\----

Once again, Rhys is standing in front of his father's office, waiting to be let in. The meeting won't be pleasant and Rhys can't quite fight down his fear.

He isn't afraid for himself, not really. He's the only heir. His father won't kill him, at least not over something like this. But Az and Cass have no such protection and even Mor might be in danger, in spite of what Az told him.

Finally, the door swings open. "Come in!", his father calls.

Head held high, Rhys enters. He can feel his father's magic in the air. The male must have released the damper on his power to intimidate him.

"Are you proud of yourself?", the High Lord of the Night Court asks, "Do you and that bastard friend of yours feel important, now that you managed to send those invaders running?"

"It was joint effort", Rhys says, "But we did win, so yes, why should I not be proud?"

His father laughs. It is not a pleasant sound. "My warrior son. So ready to fight. You wouldn't know a real battle if you saw one."

Rhys grits his teeth, but doesn't reply.

So his father says, "I received a message from the Alliance. They demand we sent them some of our soldiers and, in return, offer to send help against our enemies." He pauses. "You're flying south with an army of Illyrians."

Rhys resists the urge to roll his eyes. He wonders if his father hopes he'll die on the Continent.

But the High Lord continues, "You'll be put in charge of the Illyrians from the Ironcrest Camp."

Oh, the old bastard certainly does hate him. In his time in the Illyrian mountains, Rhys met a few Illyrians from the Ironcrest Camp. All if them had done their best to get him, Cass and Az killed. Putting him in charge of them means asking for trouble.

Still, Rhys nods. "As you wish. Although I don't have much experience with this camp. Would I be allowed to take some trusted co-commanders with me?"

His father laughs. "I hope you aren't talking about that bastard friend of yours. Because he'll be exactly where someone like him belongs: at the very bottom. And not under your command."

Rhys grits his teeth. "If you want to punish me, do so, but leave my brothers out of it."

"Brothers?" His father shakes his head. "You are my heir. They are nothing. Certainly no brothers of yours."

"That's not true!", Rhys snaps. A moment later, he wishes he could take it back.

His father leans forward until he is looming over him. "You will do as I say. And if you are so intent on meddling with the trash, perhaps you should live like them, too." He smirks. "So when you're on the Continent, you won't be there as my son and I certainly won't lift a finger to help you. You'll be no better than any other Illyrian commander."

"Father..."

"If you survive, you may call me father again", the High Lord of the Night Court growls, "Otherwise, this territory will be better off for it."

\----

The battle is a nightmare. Worse than anything Drakon could have ever imagined.

The air is filled with the clanging of weapons, the scrams of the dying and the horrible sound the enemy soldiers make when Drakon's magic chokes the air from their lungs. He never killed anyone before today. The scent of blood, sweat and fear is heavy in the too-warm air.

Their lines have long since broken up, the fighting has shifted to the air above the fort and its walls. It's pure chaos.

It can't be long now until Sinna's group will attack from behind. Still, each minute seems to last a lifetime.

Everything begins to blur together. Drakon keeps fighting, dodging and slashing and shielding until he doesn't need to think anymore before he moves, screams orders until his voice is hoarse.

The Raskan soldiers are so busy trying to fend off Drakon's part of the army that they notice Sinna's group far too late. The sound of the alarm is barely audible over the general noise.

It still takes an hour. Even as Sinna and her soldiers opened the gates from within, allowing Drakon's army to enter, the Raskan soldiers don't yield easily.

Then, it's finally over. It takes Drakon a few seconds to remember what to do with his body, how to put away his sword and calm his raging magic.

They won.

Sinna lands next to him, her white wings stained with mud and blood. "Are you alright?", she asks.

Drakon nods. He is most certainly not alright, but Sinna isn't the only one of his Generals standing around him and he remembers with a start that he's supposed to be the one to give orders now.

So he straightens and tells them to have any surviving enemies locked below the fort and to have any soldiers who can still walk help collect the wounded. (Once that is done, they'll have to find a way to get rid of the dead, before the bodies begin to rot in the heat.)

After he made all necessary decisions, he signs a letter to the Alliance informing them of the situation and listens to a report on the battle. (800 enemies dead, 300 of their own. Sinna says it's a good result, but all Drakon can think is that 300 of his people won't ever return home.)

Once everything is settled, Drakon offers to help with the wounded. He isn't much of a healer, so he helps carry them from the battle field. Talking to the soldiers, reassuring them - turns out he's good at that. They don't expect pretty, polished words. Just honesty.

The sun is already beginning to set again when a light voce says from behind him, "Have you considered that it won't look good if you fall on your face in front of your entire army?" Nephelle arches an eyebrow at him. "Because that's what's going to happen if you don't take a break."

"Hey." Drakon gives her a playful nudge. "You're supposed to be the nice one."

"I'm keeping you from embarrassing yourself. That's nice." Nephelle grins, but she, too, looks tired. "Come on. I'll show you your room."

Sighing, he follows Nephelle into the fort. The walls are still splattered with blood, corpses lying around. Nephelle leads him to a room in the highest tower. It's a suite, really, likely once owned by the fort's commander. (It's a weird thought, to sleep in a dead male's room..)

"What are you doing?", Drakon asks when Nephelle enters after him and begins to look through the cupboards

"Looking for some booze." Nephelle finds a bottle of whiskey and whistles softly. "Expensive."

"I'm _not_ getting drunk while there are people dying outside", Drakon says.

Nephelle snorts and pours them both a drink. "You just fought your first battle. Don't tell me you can't use a drink." She hands him a glass. "So, how was it?"

Drakon shrugs. "It was..." He shakes his head. "We won. That's all that counts."

Nephelle nods. "Sinna says you were brilliant. I just wish I'd been there to see it."

Drakon can't understand that, really. Today was probably one of the most horrible days in his life.

"Why do you want to fight so badly?", he asks

Nephelle crosses her arms, her wings tremble in annoyance. "You want to fight, too. You gave Sinna hell for it, remember?"

"No, I..." Drakon shakes his head. "I can't let my people die for me while I sit around and do nothing. It's my duty."

"And it's the only way for me to ever be taken seriously!", Nephelle snaps, "You don't know what it's like. Everyone acts like the fact that my wings are... like it makes me only half a person. I just want to prove them wrong."

"But fighting isn't the only way to do that", Drakon says softly, "Just look at what you did today - without you, this battle might have ended differently."

For a moment, Nephelle looks almost convinced. But then, she shakes her head. "Look, Drakon, I like you, but how could you ever understand? You're the Prince."

"Oh yes." He tries and fails not to sound bitter. "The 26-year-old Prince who only inherited the title because he messed up his engagement to the biggest asshole in the world and got his entire family killed in the process."

Nephelle snorts. Then, she clinks her glass against his and takes a drink. Drakon follows.

Nephelle says, "I always thought if I could just fight in battle and become a hero, it wouldn't matter that I'm a cripple."

Drakon wants to disagree, but somehow, he doesn't think that's what Nephelle wants to hear. Maybe she just wants to be able to say it, for once.

So Drakon offers a truth of his own. "I'm not meant to be a soldier. I'm not even meant to be a Prince. I'm just someone who studies political systems and societies and has a few ideas on how things might work. I don`t know how I ever ended up in this situation."

They clink their glasses together and take a drink.

"I worry that eventually, Sinna will grow tired of me", Nephelle says, "That she'll realise that she can do so much better than me."

Drakon doubts that will ever happen. He's rarely ever seen two people who are as smitten with each other as Sinna and Nephelle.

"I feel like the entire world is waiting for me to fail", he says, "Counting on it. Everyone knows that I shouldn't be the one in charge. And I'm so very scared to fail my people."

They drink again.

Nephelle lets out a laugh. "We're quite the duo, aren't we?"

Drakon grins. "Ready to take on the world."

For a moment, they sit together in silence. Then, Nephelle says, "For what it's worth, I think you are doing well as a Prince."

"And I'm really glad to have you as a cartographer in my army."

"Maybe we should stop feeling sorry for ourselves and start making the best of our situations."

Drakon raises his glass. "I'll drink to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, the Alliance has another meeting, Rhys is sent to the Continent with a bunch of soldiers who hate him and Miryam gets into trouble.


	11. Chapter 11

## Chapter 11

Miryam tugs at the sleeve of her dress, frowning. I's not quite long enough. At least it covers the brand on her left forearm, but the scars on her wrists are painfully visible.

The opening of her tent flaps and Miryam looks up, expecting to see Jurian. Instead, Helion enters.

"Oh, don't look so disappointed", the male drawls, "I might get the feeling you don't like me."

"You'll find that few people take kindly to being called a witch."

Helion has been hounding her these past days, ever since the incident with the wards. Trying to get answers out of her. So far, Miryam has managed to avoid him.

Helion just huffs a laugh and points towards Kiel. The falcon's wing is almost healed, it puffs his feathers and clicks its beak at Helion. "It's not like you're trying hard to hide it."

Miryam glares at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She tries to shove past him, but, quick as lightning, Helion grabs her arm. "I'm not your enemy", he says softly. Miryam can see his magic moving through the air. Her sleeves begin to grow, covering her wrist. "I don't know why you think I am."

Before Miryam can reply, Helion lets go of her arm and takes a step back. A second later, Jurian and Mor enter the tent. Jurian frowns at Helion, Mor winks at her.

Both of them are dressed in their finery for the meeting, Jurian in light leather armour and Mor in a red silk dress that is far more revealing than anything Miryam could ever wear without breaking down.

"Everyone ready?", Helion asks, "Then let's go."

Hesitantly, Miryam takes his arm. This time, she pays close attention to the way the strings move around him, trying to figure out what they mean. But he winnows far too quickly for her to make sense of the glowing lines. They land in the garden once again. Miryam steps away from Helion and closer to Jurian.

"Everything fine?", he whispers into her ear.

Miryam nods and gratefully takes the arm he offers her. She tries to pretend she doesn't notice the encouraging look Mor shoots her.

Then, Andromache rushes down the palace steps towards them. She pauses for a moment to smile at Mor. "How's training going?"

"Oh, fine", Mor replies. Miryam wonders if she imagines the colour staining her cheeks.

Andromache smiles. "Maybe one day, we can train together." Then, she turns to Miryam. "Come on, the meeting starts in an hour and there's so much to discuss."

The queen falls into step next to her. "I missed you during the meetings, it's so much harder without you here. You're the only one who can really deal with the Fae."

Miryam wrinkles her nose. When did she become the expert for Fae? Oh, right. When she thought it was a smart move to announce that she was the one who knew them best.

"What's going on?", she asks.

"Is Nakia still being a pain?", Jurian cuts in

"She isn't a bad person, you know? Just hard." Andromache sighs. "And yes, a real pain sometimes. Most times. Anyways, most days, this council argues three quarters of the time. We can't seem to agree on anything."

Miryam stifles a groan. "Any good news?"

"You're the only one both us and the Fae seem to respect, so that's good." Andromache grins. "And we now control the Callian Pass."

"What?", Jurian asks, "You're serious?"

"What's the Callian Pass?", Miryam asks.

Jurian says, "It's one of the only ways through the mountains. An incredibly important strategic location. Who got it?"

"Erithia", Andromache says and Miryam freezes, "It's funny, really. We kept sending out messages to them and they kept refusing. And then, they take the Callian Pass from Rask and send a message the same night, telling us they'd like to join." She shakes her head. "Did you know that their Prince was engaged to-"

"So Prince Drakon will be at the meeting today?", Miryam asks, before Andromache can say that cursed name.

She wonders if the Prince will recognise her. Probably not. Chances are he already forgot about the slave girl she helped escape. Maybe it would be for the best. But somehow, Miryam knows she'll still try to thank him, no matter what.

"No", Andromache says, "He sent an emissary. I heard politics isn't his strong suit."

"Oh, that certainly is true", a new voice says from behind and the Grand Duke of Sangravah steps next to Miryam. He bows to the waist. "Lady Miryam. A pleasure to meet you again."

"The pleasure is mine", Miryam replies and returns the gesture, "How do you know the Prince?"

"Knowing is too big a word", the Grand Duke replies, "We met a few times, but I mostly just heard of him and read his texts. I'm quite fond of some of his ideas."

Miryam wants to ask another question, but the Grand Duke already turns to Mor. "So you're the one from the Night Court?", he asks.

"Yes, Your Grace." Mor inclines her head (not deep enough by far).

"Prythian, hm?", he says, "I always felt you guys take yourself quite seriously for such a little spot on the map."

Helion and Mor exchange a look.

"Let's go to the meeting room", Miryam says before one of them can start an argument and walks ahead.c

The meeting room is different from the one Miryam remembers. Mostly, the table is bigger and there are more people sitting around.

"You ruined my fun", Jurian whispers into her ear, "I would have loved to see that fight."

"Sorry. But I would have hated to pick up the pieces afterwards."

Jurian rolls his eyes and kicks a Fae soldier out of his usual chair. The male lets out a growl and Miryam offers him an apologizing smile, making him calm down a little.

She leans on the back of Jurian's chair. "Can you manage the hour until the meeting starts without getting into a fight?", she teases.

"Sure." Jurian smiles up at her. "Since I have no interest of meddling with the Fae, I'm staying right where I am."

Miryam doesn't have the same luxury. But fortunately, she likes several of the Fae in this room. During her time as an emissary, she met most of these royals and some of them were alright (cutthroat, with words like knives, but not bad people)

Still, it's weird to have these conversations. One moment, Miryam's perfectly at ease, sometimes she even enjoys herself - the next second, it takes all of her self control to keep smiling and not break down.

She manages to get a grip of Mor for a moment and make sure she's doing fine. It's the female's first time in foreign politics, but the High Lord excused himself, so Mor had to step in. As far as Miryam can tell, she is doing well (messing up the rules of Continental politics so badly that Miryam has to suppress a wince whenever she says something, but since she's from Prythian, no one minds). Either way, Miryam has only exchanged a few words with her when another Fae royal wants to talk to her.

Eventually, she ends up in her seat next to Jurian and the meeting begins.

The first one to speak is a white-winged Fae male who serves as emissary to their newest member. He gives a brief summary about what happened in the Callian Pass and officially informs them that Erithia would like to join the Alliance.

"And your Prince couldn't be bothered to come himself?", one of the present royals asks.

Another one laughs. "He was probably scared to mess up again after that incident with Queen Ravenia."

A few people chuckle. Miryam honestly wonders why Prince Drakon sent an emissary. He may be bad at Continental politics, but surely he must see that staying away only makes things worse.

The Seraphim emissary bristles. "Prince Drakon is understandably busy with his army. He sends his regards."

A Fae female smirks. "Or he thinks he won't be able to resist all these pretty mortals on the council. After all, I heard a rumour that he broke his engagement with Ravenia over one of her slaves."

"And I heard", Miryam says lightly, "that spreading rumours about your allies is frowned upon in polite society. At least it's not a very nice way to thank them for winning us an important strategic location."

"Thank you, My Lady", the emissary says and inclines his head

Miryam smiles at the male. "I apologize for the incident. Do tell your Prince that we are grateful for the assistance."

To her surprise, there are no more teasing comments after that. Does she truly have such power over these centuries-old royals?

The vote on accepting Erithia's wish to join the alliance is pure formality. For all their cruel jokes, no one is about to reject an ally this powerful.

After that, the floor is given to a female from one of the countries south of the Black Land. "I'm afraid I don't have good news", she says, "We lost 1500 soldiers yesterday."

Jurian frowns. "What happened?", he asks.

"The Black Land tried to invade, we sent an army to meet theirs. At first, we were holding our own, but then, something changed. I still don't know what exactly happened, but suddenly, our magic stopped working." She shakes her head. "Our soldiers were slaughtered. Less than two hundred made it out alive."

"What do you mean", the Grand Duke of Sangravah asks, " _your magic stopped working_?"

The female shrugs, looking a bit helpless. There are shadows under her eyes. "It just vanished. High Witcher Artax was at the battle, I assume that he cast a spell."

It's all Miryam can do not to flinch at the male's mention. She takes a deep breath and slips on a mask of neutral interest. She keeps a tight grip on her emotions, refusing to let the sheer terror that's flooding her at the memories appear in her scent.

Helion is watching her closely from the other side of the table. She wonders if he thinks she could have stopped it, if he truly believes she could have gone up against Artax and saved these soldiers.

Queen Nakia shakes her head. "You mean to tell me that one witcher could do this to an entire army?"

Helion snorts without taking his eyes off Miryam. "They could do worse. Artax, especially."

Andromache asks, "Can't we get some of them on our side?"

"The witcher's Guild isn't exactly known to care for mortals", Helion says, "And joining our side would mean giving up on the Sacrifices, which isn't likely. Especially with Artax as the High Witcher."

Miryam wishes she could vanish. Her power is whispering inside her and the fact that this room is full of powerful Fae, all of whom make no effort to dampen their power, isn't helpul at all.

"So", Jurian says (and Miryam doesn't want to hear what he has to say, but she can't stop him), "Nothing we can do about this. Unless someone knows a way to kill all these witches."

A few people laugh. Miryam doesn't.

Fortunately, the conversation turns away from the Guild after that. Instead, they argue endlessly about everything from chains of command to strategies. Miryam doesn't feel like she's entirely there. Even as she navigates the conversation, wielding words like knives, working together with Andromache and the Grand Duke, her thoughts keep drifting back to those dead soldiers.

And finally, the meeting is over. She is so very tired.

Helion winnows all of them back to the camp. Miryam brushes off Jurian's worried question if she's fine and hurries off to her tent.

\----

Rhys is having a horrible week.

The flight from Prythian to the Continent with his soldiers was already difficult. It took two days to get to where they were supposed to be and during that time, he had to get through a total of fifteen dominance battles with the Illyrians.

By the time they reach their designated camp, Rhys is done. He's about one insult away from snapping.

This straw is an Illyrian male who somehow thinks it's a good idea to insult a bunch of mortal soldiers and then get into a fight with them. Fortunately, Rhys arrives before someone ends up dead. His power slams through the male's shield and Rhys grabs him by the wing. The male whimpers as he drags him off.

The mortals, however, don't look scared, even though they quite obviously lost the fight. If anything, they seem angry.

"Sorry about that", Rhys calls out to them as he drags the male towards their camp, "That one isn't trained yet."

He doesn't let go of the male's wing until they have reached the Illyrian camp that's still being constructed next to the main one. A part of him wants to shrink back from the cruelty, but these Illyrians understand nothing but brutality.

All around them, Illyrian soldiers stop their work to watch. Rhys drags the male to the centre of the camp.

"Stay away from the mortals", he snaps, loudly enough that everyone can hear him.

He releases the hold on his power enough to let the Illyrians around him feel it in the air. Turns around slowly to hold all of their gazes.

Then, he lets go of the male's wing and stalks off.

Even after his declaration, he spends the day breaking up fights and dealing out punishments (ordering the beatings makes a part of him shrink back each time, but it's all the Illyrians know. Anything less and they won't take him seriously). To make matters worse, after a few hours, the mortals are fed up with the Illyrians' attitude and are tired of being pushed around and start fighting back.

By the time everything is finally settled, Rhys is done. Done with acting so cold and cruel, done with the Illyrians sneering at him. He just wants to go _home_ , back to his family. Or at least, he wants a moment of peace in his tent.

But when he enters the commander's tent, he hears voices. Inside, he finds the Ironcrest Lord, Marek, and a male he never met, though his dark skin makes it seem likely that he's from the Continent.

"What's going on?", Rhys asks sharply.

The male arches an eyebrow at him. "I'm having a meeting with the commander."

"I'm the commander", Rhys says, a growl escaping his throat. He jerks his chin at Marek. "Out. I'll deal with you later."

The male looks inclined to object and Rhys lets his power rumble through the air. Malek bares his teeth, but is smart enough to do as Rhys says.

"As I was just telling that other one: Your soldiers", the strange male hisses, "are a menace. Since you arrived, there were 36 fights. More than in the last two months in total."

Rhys winces. "I apologize for their behaviour. I gave them orders to stay away from the mortals."

"Well, you're not a very good commander, are you?", the male (likely the general in charge of the camp) asks, "Letting your soldiers walk all over you. How did you even get the position, a green boy like you?"

Rhys bristles. "My father, the High Lord, appointed me."

"Oh, wonderful", the General drawls, "A prince. Grown up rich and thinks he deserves everything he got. You probably never even saw battle. You know, I just love kids like you."

Rhys glares at him. "I trained for years to earn that position."

The male laughs. "Then I have news for you, little prince. Your father, apparently, doesn't recognise you as a son. Meaning, no protection for you. So you'll see your fair share of battle." The male brushes past Rhys. "You know", he says as he exits the tent, "I've always wanted to make a privileged little prick like you learn what life is like for normal people."

\----

"You're dead", Jurian drawls, "Again."

"I'm sorry", Mor snaps from where she's lying on the ground.

"Don't be sorry, do better."

"I'm trying!"

Jurian glares at her. "No, you aren't. Because your mind is elsewhere." He sheathes his sword. "Either focus on what's going on, or stop entirely."

Mor glares right back. "I just heard that my uncle sent my cousin and one of my best friends to the Continent to fight. And I'm not allowed to contact them, so I have no way of knowing if they are alright." She shakes her head. "They could die and I wouldn't even know."

Jurian doesn't really know what to say. He hasn't had any kind of family beyond his soldiers since he was a child. If Mor wants sympathy, she should go to Miryam. However, Jurian may be able to offer some advice.

"They send out casualty lists", he says, "You can check there."

Mor bites her lip, then nods. "Good idea. Thank you." She hesitates. "You want some advice?"

"What kind of advice?"

Mor looks torn for a moment. Then, she says, "You know, the entire camp noticed what's going on with you and Miryam by now."

"This isn't the kind of thing I'm discussing with you."

Mor shakes her head. "Just make a move, Jurian. Because she isn't about to."

"What did she tell you?"

"Talk to her." With that, Mor turns around and walks off.

For a moment, Jurian considers running after her and _making_ her answer. But somehow, he doubts that would be win him any favour with Miryam.

He straightens. Truth is, he should have talked to her long ago. It's been months since he realised what he feels for her. But better now than never.

He only remembers that his timing is off when he enters Miryam's tent. She's been in a bad mood ever since the meeting. (At least that's what Jurian thinks. But with Miryam, even he sometimes has a hard time telling.)

At the moment, Miryam is standing at her work table, sorting through herbs. Which means she's upset over something. At least she turns around when Jurian enters.

"Did anything happen?", she asks, "You look a bit pale."

Honestly, he considers running off. But that's what cowards do.

"Everything's fine", he says, "Let's go for a walk." Miryam doesn't move and Jurian adds, "Come on. You can't hide in here the entire evening."

It isn't the first time this happens. Miryam thinks no one notices when she has a bad day, but Jurian sees. He can't usually tell why (and asking, he learned early on, is not helpful) but he usually finds some small way to help.

Miryam puts down her herbs. She follows Jurian out of the tent and through the camp.

The sun already set, but the camp is still full of soldiers sitting around campfires. Miryam, once again, is all smiles and kind words, addressing most soldiers by the name. Jurian, too, calls out greetings left and right, but he leads Miryam towards the edge of the camp.

"Where are we going?", she asks once they reach the trees at the edge of the camp.

"It's a surprise."

Jurian thought long and hard on where to tell her, until he finally decided. He prays she'll like the place he chose.

It's a walk of fifteen minutes from the camp. They spend the time talking about this and that - how Kiel's wing is healing, the newest rumours going around the camp, why Queen Nakia has a stick up her ass.

Finally, they reach their destination. Jurian goes first, pulling the branches of a tree apart for Miryam to go through. She pushes past him and goes entirely still, staring at the waterfall before them.

The moon is standing high in the sky and its light reflects on the water, transforming each drop into tiny diamonds.

"It's beautiful", Miryam whispers, awe on her face. Jurian loves that about her, how she treats everything like a precious gift.

Carefully, he reaches out and tugs a loose strand of hair behind her ear. " _You_ are beautiful", he says softly, "And kind, and smart. And so very brave."

"Jur..." Miryam turns to him, a thousand feelings reflecting on her face. "I'm not sure if I can do this."

Jurian doesn't know what to reply to that, so he just waits in silence, holding his breath. The waterfall is loud enough to drown out the sound of his racing heart.

Finally, Miryam says, "There's just so much..." She takes a deep breath. "There's so much I never told you. And I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to. But I'm a mess, Jur, I don't think you know how much of a mess I am."

It breaks his heart, to hear her say this. To see her so unhappy. He reaches out for her hand.

"I know that things will be hard", he says, “and that you can't tell me everything, but that doesn't change anything. Because even if I could have every girl in the world, I'd always choose you. You're all I want, all I ever wanted and there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

There are tears shining in Miryam's eyes. "I-", she says, but then she freezes, her eyes fixed on something behind Jurian.

He's about to turn when he feels the sting at his back. A sword point pressed against his back, hard enough to draw blood.

"Don't move", a voice hisses from behind him.

Jurian is an idiot. Such a Cauldron-damned idiot. He just berated Mor for not paying attention, and what does he do? Run right into an ambush because he can't take his eyes off Miryam.

"Run!", Jurian snaps at her.

Then, he darts aside, narrowly avoiding being pierced by the sword (those Fae are always surprised when a human fights back). He draws a dagger, but before he can swing at his attacker, ropes of fire wrap around his wrists, climb up his body.

Jurian gasps in pain, the dagger falls out of his hand as he is forced to his knees. The fire isn't hot enough to truly burn his skin, but it _hurts_. Then, there is cold metal at his throat.

"Don't!", Miryam screams. She is being held by two red-skinned faeries with horns, one male, one female. She's fighting in their grasp, kicking and thrashing.

"Stop it or he dies", a female voice says from behind Jurian and the knife presses harder against his throat.

Miryam freezes. A moment later, the knife vanishes from Jurian's throat. The ropes of fire remain, though, singing his skin. A High Fae female, her skin the same light brown as Miryam's, steps between them.

She laughs softly and points her bloody dagger at Miryam. "You're a wild one, aren't you?" She nods towards her companions.

"Stay away from her!", Jurian shouts. (A nightmare. This is a nightmare.)

No one listens to him. One of the faeries grabs Miryam by the arm and pulls back her sleeve, revealing the brand on her forearm.

"Look at that", the female drawls, "Isn't that just lovely?" She steps closer and runs a hand through Miryam's hair. "You're going to make us very rich, dear."

Jurian is shaking with rage, but also confused. If this is an ambush, why are they only focused on Miryam? They don't even seem to know who he is.

"What are you talking about?", Miryam asks. Her voice is shaking.

"What if she isn't the one we're looking for?", one of the faeries asks, almost worried, "You know what happened the last time a bounty hunter brought the wrong girl."

The High Fae turns to Miryam. "Who was your owner, mortal?"

Miryam just shakes her head wildly. "Please, please, I never did anything, I'm no one, just-"

One of the faeries hits her in the face. "Answer the question, scum."

Jurian strains against the ropes binding him, but that just makes the fire burn more.

Miryam is crying and her voice shakes when she replies, "The crown. I worked in the kitchen, I'm no one. Please, I don't know what you want from me."

Jurian is going to kill these Fae. Slowly. (He knows it's far more likely they'll kill him, but he still imagines the end he'll give them if he gets free.)

The female steps closer to Miryam, who shrinks back. Runs a finger over her cheek. "You're very convincing, dearie. But my guts tell me you're the one."

"No, no, I just worked in the kitchen. Under the cook, Dalior. He always hit me with his spoon, I don't know why-"

One grabs her by the neck, hard enough to make her whimper. Jurian growls softly. But the Fae lifts a hand.

"This is useless", she says.

She turns to Jurian. He has a moment to brace himself before the ropes begin to _burn_. Pain shoots through him. He grits his teeth, trying to keep from screaming.

"Stop!" Miryam shouts, "Don't hurt him, please!"

"Oh, I don't want to hurt him. Just tell me the truth, then I'll let him go", the female says, "Because you are the girl who stole Queen's lover, right?"

"No", Miryam whispers, "I never even met the Queen, I-"

The pain intensifies and now, Jurian does scream. He can barely hear Miryam begging, the Fae refusing.

"Alright!", Miryam finally shouts.

The pain stops. Jurian falls to the ground, panting. Groaning in pain, he manages to rise to his knees.

Like someone turned a switch, Miryam stops crying. She holds her head high and stares at the Fae. Jurian could have sworn her eyes are burning from within. But maybe, that is just the moonlight playing tricks on him.

"You are right", she says, voice cold as ice, "I was one of Queen Ravenias' personal slaves for three years. I am the one you're looking for. But I didn't steal Prince Drakon - he left because no one in their right mind could stomach being with that monster you call queen for an hour, let alone eternity."

Jurian stares at her, not quite able to hide his shock. Cauldron. He knew she belonged to Ravenia, but he always thought she was one of the thousands of slaves owned by the crown. Not...

"Thank you", the female drawls, "Like I said, you'll make us very rich."

She takes a step towards Jurian. He tries and fails to get up. So this is it. The end. He always wanted to die in battle. Not like this.

"No!", Miryam screams, "You promised to let him go!"

"Oh, hush", the female says, "Once we deliver you to Ravenia, you'll envy his quick death." Then, she draws her dagger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mean, I know. I'm sorry. To be fair, I went 10 chapters without a cliffhanger.  
> Also, I`d really love to hear what you guys think of this story :) *insert me shamelessly begging for comments*


	12. Chapter 12

## Chapter 12

This is a nightmare. It has to be.

Miryam keeps thinking that she'll wake up any moment. Because this can't be happening. It can't. But deep down, she knows that she won't wake up. This is real.

They will take her back to Ravenia's palace and they will kill her. Slowly, painfully, drawn out over weeks. She has seen the punishments for those who tried to run and can only imagine what they will do to her. Still, Miryam doesn't beg for mercy - she knows it's no use and she decided a long time ago that she wouldn't die begging. (Even if she knows that she'll likely beg for death before the end. They all do.)

The female takes another step towards Jurian, the dagger glinting in her hand.

"Don't!", Miryam calls, "You don't need to kill him, just leave him be. It's me you want.

The female turns to her, her red aura (fire magic) glowing around her. "Be glad I kill him here and don't take him to Ravenia as well."

Something cold settles in Miryam`s stomach. Her power is beginning to rise, sensing her roaring emotions. "If you touch him", she hisses, "I will _kill you._ "

The female just laughs.

Miryam just stares at her, going still in the faeries' grasp. She feels like her blood is on fire, lightning shooting through her veins. She feels like she's standing in the middle of an ocean, power tugging at her like a strong current.

Miryam lets it. What does it matter, anyways? She is already dead.

She doesn't know the spells, never learned to control her power properly, but worry is a distant thing. She barely feels the two faeries grab her hard enough to bruise. Her body might as well have belonged to someone else - there is just the power, tugging at her, begging her to just let go.

Still, she sees the High Fae angle her dagger over Jurian, who is still kneeling on the ground.

Miryam erupts. Her power is pulsing through the air and the female spins around to her. Miryam is burning, floating in an ocean of power, but it is unfocused, unguided - and harmless, because Miryam never learned how to direct it the right way.

She looks around, searching for anything to grab onto, and only finds the auras, glowing brightly around her three captors. Miryam imagines squeezing her hand shut around them, pressing the glowing magic right into the Fae. Choking them.

The female takes a step towards her. "What-"

Then, she screams. The faeries who hold Miryam let go, both of them start screaming, too. The female clutches her head. Drops to the ground.

"I warned you", Miryam says in a voice that doesn`t entirely belong to her.

She doesn't feel anything. Just power, thrumming through her. The Fae continue screaming.

Until they fall silent.

Jurian is staring at her, wide-eyed. He gasps.

This is what pulls Miryam back. She snaps back into her own body. Her power is still there, pulling at her, but she isn't drowning anymore.

Oh Cauldron, what has she done?

The three Fae are lying on the ground, limp, but Miryam rushes towards Jurian. She can see red, burnt skin through his clothes, but if she can tend to the wounds quickly enough, it should be fine. He has to be fine.

She crouches down before him. "Are you alright? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

She reaches out, to pull his ruined tunic back and get a closer look at the burns, but Jurian flinches back. Only then does she notice the look on his face.

Fear. Mixed with horror.

Miryam stumbles back like he struck her. Her head is spinning, her power still pulling at her and there are three dead people lying on the ground around her. People she killed. Oh, Mother.

She spins around and flees. Without seeing or caring where she's going, she runs through the trees. Branches snag at her clothes and scratch her skin, but the pain is nothing.

She just killed three people. And Jurian knows what she is. He hates her. Miryam sobs.

Her foot catches on a root. Before she can react, she crashes to the ground. The skin on her hands rips open, but the pain barely registers. She doesn't bother getting up again. Instead, she simply curls up into a tight ball and begins to cry.

Slowly, her magic calms down. In its place, it leaves a burning pain. Miryam doesn't care.

She hears steps approach, but doesn't move. Maybe it's another Fae, come to kill her after all. She doesn't care. Everything hurts.

"Miryam", a concerned voice says. Helion. What is he doing here?

Strong hands grip for her and Miryam begins to struggle. She doesn't want him to touch her, doesn't-

"Easy", Helion whispers, "It's fine. Everything's fine. I'm just taking you back to the camp."

Miryam stops fighting back, but he still keeps talking to her, softly, like she's a frightened animal to be soothed. She isn`t entirely sure how she ends up in her tent, in her bed. She curls up into a ball. She focuses on her breathing, tries to shut out the pain or the image of the look in Jurian`s eyes.

“Miryam!”, Helion says (from his tone, not for the first time), “Could you please tell me if you`re hurt? Because otherwise, I`ll have to take a look and I feel like you won`t like that.

“I feel like my insides are on fire”, Miryam says into her cushion.

“I won`t claim I know much about witches”, Helion says, “Given that you guys are secretive as hell, but from what little I do know, that isn`t unusual. Just your body telling you to slow down before you burn yourself up. It isn`t fatal, though.”

It sure feels like it is. “I killed them”, Miryam whispers.

“I know”, Helion replies.

“I`m a monster. I`m just like _them_.”

“It speaks highly of you that you feel that way, but it`s war, Miryam”, Helion says softly, “Show me a single soldier who never killed anyone. And these people wouldn`t have hesitated to slaughter you and Jurian. You did the right thing.”

Miryam jerks upright. “What about Jurian?”, she asks, “Oh, Cauldron, I just...”

“Calm down, he`s fine. A bit scorched, maybe, but nothing a healer can`t fix.”

“He`ll hate me.”

“If he does”, Helion says, “he`ll be the biggest fool ever. But I`m sure he`ll understand.”

Miryam isn`t that confident. She has seen the look on Jurian`s face. Pure horror. But she doubts that Helion would ever be able to understand what being a witch means to humans. But she doesn`t feel like explaining.

Finally, Helion says softly, “You really are that young, aren`t you?”

“What?”

“I...” She can almost _hear_ Helion shake his head. “I knew what you were from the moment I saw you in that war tent. But I thought... I thought you were older. Experienced. I thought you were lying about your age and your abilities to fit in better but I would never have imagined...” When Miryam still doesn`t reply, he adds, “But why? Why are you lying?”

“Why?” Miryam glares at him. “I have had my _experience_ with the noble Witcher`s Guilt. Have watched them slaughter countless of my people. You think this ability is a gift?” She shakes her head. “It`s a curse. This”, she gestures to herself, “will ruin _everything_ I have built for myself.”

Unable to stand that thought, Miryam gets up. The world sways beneath her feet and Helion reaches out to steady her.

“What are you doing?”

“I`m going to talk to Jurian. Before this gets any worse.” By the doorway, she hesitates. “Thank you. For your help”, she says, “Truly.”

Helion just waves her off. “If you want to thank me, take a little care of yourself. Your body is exhausted. You should rest.”

“I will”, Miryam says, “After talking to Jurian.”

For all her brave words, walking through the camp is exhausting. She has to stop every few steps because she feels like she`s going to pass out. But Miryam has some experience in ignoring pain (if a slave in the Black Land couldn`t work, they were killed). She is pretty sure none of the soldiers notice that something is wrong.

She enters Jurian`s tent without knocking, only to find out that he isn`t alone. Tia is sitting on his desk and they are both studying a map. When Miryam enters, Jurian looks up. There is nothing pleasant in the look he gives her.

“Can you leave us alone, please”, he says to Tia, voice cold.

“But...”

“Leave!”, Jurian snaps.

Tia merely arches an eyebrow and looks between them. Then, she shakes her head and pushes past Miryam out of the tent.

“Are you...” Miryam hesitates. “Are you hurt?”

Jurian just stares at her. Slowly, he rises from his chair.

“I`m sorry about what happened”, Miryam says.

“That`s it?”, Jurian asks sharply, “That is all you have to say? You were a personal slave to Ravenia of the Black Land, you stole her damned lover, for Cauldron`s sake! And oh, yeah, on top of all that, you are a gods-damned _witch_!”

“I`m sorry”, Miryam whispers.

“Sorry?” Jurian shakes his head. “Was anything you ever said to me true, or did you lie about everything?”

“I never lied to you”, Miryam says, proud of how even her voice sounds even though she`s dying inside. “Maybe I should have told you more, but _I never lied_. I told you I didn`t want to talk about my past and you accepted that, so don`t blame me for it now.”

“And what about you being a witch? You just decided not to mention that, either?”

Miryam`s hands are shaking, she curls them into fists. “You truly think I wanted that?”, she asks, “You think I feel good about it?” She takes a step closer the Jurian until she is standing right in front of him. “If you knew half of the shit I`ve seen witches do, you would never sleep through the night again! I can barely even use my powers!”

“But. We. Are. Friends.”, Jurian says, each word clipped, “Friends tell each other things. They trust each other. That`s how it works, Miryam.”

He is hurt, she realizes. Not angry, not really. Just hurt. And if Miryam is being honest, he has every right to be. 

“I know”, she says, “But I couldn`t tell you. I couldn`t.”

“You couldn`t? That`s all you`re going to say?”, Jurian asks, “Don`t you think I had a right to know?”

The utterly wrong thing to say. A part of Miryam knows that he doesn`t mean ill, but the words still make her go entirely still. “The _right_?”, she asks, voice deadly calm, “Am I your possession, now?”

Jurian flinches. “I didn`t mean that”, he says, all traces of anger gone (he almost sounds panicked), “Please, you _know_ I didn`t mean it that way!”

Miryam just shakes her head. She is so very tired. And nothing she can say will change anything. At the end of the day, she will still be a witch. And Jurian will still hate her. So she just turns around and leaves.

Drakon has always hated the Mountain of the Dead, the highest peak in the mountain range that borders the capital of Erithia. Ever since he was a child, going up there scared him. This place isn`t meant for the living and he feels like an intruder every time.

It's been two days since the battle. The dead have been buried and the wounded who survived so far will likely make it. Everything is calm enough that he dared to leave the fort for a few hours to winnow back to Erithia. (He told Sinna he was going to check in on his council. Not entirely a lie, he did visit them for a short while).

But the true reason he left is a different one.

Drakon crouches down before the four newest statues they erected on top of the windswept mountain, next to the ones of their ancestors. The statues for his parents are ornate and vivid enough that they almost look alive. His sisters' statues are different. Still beautiful, but the features are a bit off in places. (Drakon knows that his father had his and his mothers' statue hewn before his death, as most rulers do. But his sisters were young enough that they hadn't seen to the preparations yet, so their statues had not had a living model. The sculptor did his best, but it is still not quite the same.)

He knows that their bodies aren't here. Seraphim get burned after their death, the ashes carried away by the wind. Still, this is the only place where he can talk to them.

"I'm sorry", he says softly, "I'm sorry things went so wrong, I'm sorry you had to pay for my mistakes." He turns towards his sisters' statues. "It was supposed to be you. Either of you." He shakes his head. "You would have been better than me. You would have been confident and strong. True leaders." The statues don't reply. "But I'll do my very best", he says, "I will take care of our people and I will be a good leader. I swear it."

With that, he turns around. Flaring his wings, he takes off, soaring between the mountaintops and down to the city sprawled below. He lands in front of the gates of a small temple standing just beyond the city gates.

The High Priestess is leaning against the gate. She is ancient, her brown skin wrinkled with age and her black hair long since turned white. But her brown eyes still glint with intelligence.

Drakon inclines his head, the female returns the gesture.

"I was wondering", she says, "when you'd seek me out, Prince."

"You think I should have come sooner."

She shrugs. "You are given 21 months. It is not my place to judge what time you choose."

"My father went the night of his coronation", he points out.

"Yes, but he had months to prepare, since your grandmother, Cauldron bless her soul, abdicated. She took the entire 21 months back when she inherited the crown, by the way." She gives Drakon a sharp look. "You doubt too much, Prince."

Drakon doesn't reply (what would he say, anyways?). He just holds out a hand to the female. She takes it and he winnows them away.

The sensation, as usual, is far from pleasant. He blinks in the bright light and takes a deep breath, trying to fight the rising nausea. This is why he prefers flying.

He looks around. They landed inside a jungle. Monkeys and colourful birds are jumping around in the branches, small animals scurry off. Drakon only came here once before, when he was ten, but even then, it struck him how different this island is from Erithia. Colourful, soft. Unreal, somehow.

“Lets go”, Drakon says with a lightness he doesn`t feel.

He offers the High Priestess an arm to help her through the bushes. It is at least a mile to go, as far as he remembers, but the wards around the cave keep them from winnowing in and the High Priestess is old, her wings to frail to get her airborne.

Slowly, the way becomes steeper. The High Priestess leads the way through the trees like she has been here a million times (Not true, Drakon knows. Cretea is holy. The only people permitted here are the High Priestess and members of the Erithian royal family, and even those only with good reason.)

Finally, they reach the cave. Its entry is blocked by a door. Bronze, although it is filled with lead, meant to mask the power contained within. The High Priestess takes a key from her necklace. She whispers a prayer, then opens the door. Immediately, the power in the air intensifies, making a shiver run down Drakon`s spine.

The High Priestess turns to him. “You know what has to happen?”

“Yes.” He reread the ancient texts until he could recite them word by word.

“Then you also know you have to continue alone from now.”

Drakon nods. “I`m ready”, he says, trying not to sound like he wants to convince himself.

The tunnel is not dark. Along the walls, fluorescent plants glow in a pale light. (When Drakon`s father brought him here sixteen years ago, he thought they were ghosts). With each step, the power in the air intensifies.

Finally, the tunnel ends in an artfully carved doorway. Mist rises, then solidifies into a body. 

Drakon stares at his father, blinking. This isn`t what he expected. The first time he was here, a big spider sat in the doorway, but he isn`t ten anymore. He knew his biggest fear was bound to have changed, but he thought it would be Ravenia now. Not this.

“Hello”, he says awkwardly, watching his father (the _illusion_ of his father) who still stands in the doorway.

“So you`re the Prince now”, his father drawls, “Congratulations. Got yourself a position you were never meant to have as a reward for your incompetence.”

“This isn`t real”, Drakon says, “You are dead.” It doesn`t make the words hurt less, though.

“Because of your mistakes”, his father hisses, “I asked one thing of you, one simple thing. And you couldn`t even manage that.”

“That`s not fair!”, Drakon replies (so much for not letting the illusion meant to chase him away get to him). “Ravenia is a _monster_. You knew that, and you still tried to get into an alliance with her. What were you thinking?” It`s what he has been asking himself for the past years, anyways.

“You weren`t ever meant to have that position”, his father tells him, “What are you, hm? The third son, the unwanted one. Too stupid for Continental Politics, unfit to rule.” The male smirks. “The entire Continent laughs about you. And you will fail. You will fail your people and when it all crumbles around you, you will remember me.”

The illusion had a point - that _is_ his biggest fear. 

Drakon lifts his chin. “My father is dead”, he says, “You are just an illusion, meant to scare me. And you are wrong.” He thinks of Sinna and Nephelle, who both believe in him and of the vow he swore to his dead family. “Because I will _never_ let my people down.”

His father watches him for a moment longer. Then, the illusion dissolves into mist, leaving the entry free.

Carefully, Drakon steps into the circular room behind the doorway. The power in the air is like a punch to the stomach. He turns towards the vitrine in the center of the room, where an ornate sword is on display, puts a hand over his heart and bows to the waist. He waits a few seconds, then straightens.

The sword is beautiful, its steel like lightning given form. In the hilt, there is a dark stone embedded. It looks like a void, eating up the light around it. (They say the sword was forged by the same people who created the Cauldron, the stone in its hilt the first thing to ever be made by the Cauldron.) Drakon takes a step towards it, then another. 

“Wonderful, isn`t it?”, a voice says from behind him.

Drakon yelps and spins around. He only barely keeps from cursing (this is a holy place, after all). Even if what he sees would absolutely warrant a few curses.

A shadow is standing before him. A shadow in form of a male. 

“All that power”, the shadow-male says, “Imagine the possibilities. Use it to free me and I´ll give you whatever you wish for.”

Drakon sighs. “I`m kind of busy right now, you know?”

“Ah, yes. The initiation. Saying your pretty little vows.” The male laughs. It sounds like a crow. “I have been trapped here for five millennia. Free me and I`ll do whatever you ask.”

“Isn`t that how you ended up in your situation in the first place, witcher?”, Drakon asks, “By trying to steal this power and use it for your own gains. You committed a sacrilege and you got what you deserved.”

“What if I could find your mate?”, the shadow-witcher asks, “Or kill that female – Ravenia.”

Drakon ignores him and puts his hands on the sword`s blade. He winces as the blade cuts his skin. Blood runs up the blade, towards the hilt and the stone embedded there (defying the laws of physics in the process, but with magic this powerful, those rarely apply anyways). The stone begins to glow as it sucks up the blood.

Slowly, Drakon begins to recite the words of the vow. The language is unlike any he ever encountered. Each word burns on his tongue, halfway through, his throat already feels like it must be bleeding.

“Do you even understand what you`re swearing?”, the witcher asks.

Drakon ignores him. (He does not, but he isn`t about to admit that. Besides, those vows have been sworn by every ruler of Erithia since their nation was founded millennia ago.)

By the time the vow is done, it is all he can do not to collapse on the ground. But it is over. Now, he is recognized as the new Prince not only before his people, but also before the Cauldron.

“I could make you the greatest Prince in history”, the witcher says, “No one would ever laugh at you again.”

“Thank you, but no”, Drakon says, “Not now, not ever.”

He takes his hands off the blade. They are bleeding, but it barely hurts. He wipes the blood off on his clothes, bows again to the sword (ignoring his unwanted companion who rolls his eyes) and turns around to leave.

“Anything you want!”, the witcher calls after him, his voice echoing on the walls, “Mark my words: Before the end, you`ll remember my offer!”

Jurian is in a bad mood. 

Almost a day after the disaster with Miryam and the bounty hunters, he still hasn`t managed to talk to her. A part of him feels bad for the harsh words between them and the silence that followed. That same part wants nothing more than to go looking for her and beg her for forgiveness.

But Jurian is also proud and angry and if anyone should make the first step, it should be Miryam. Miryam the witch, apparently. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn`t have believed it. 

She should have told him. They were almost in a relationship, for Cauldron`s sake! Maybe he didn`t have the _right_ to know (and he should have known to avoid any phrasing that implied owning her in any way), but it`s just how relationships work. Trust - something she apparently never had in him. Not really.

So Jurian doesn`t go to Miryam. Instead, she trains until his body is aching. It still doesn`t help his mood. Then, he gets into a fight with Tia, who ends it by snapping at him to keep his frustration away from her.

To keep from angering any more friends, he hides in his tent. That`s where Helion finds him.

“I don`t want to talk to you”, Jurian tells him.

“Too bad for you”, Helion replies, “You`re an idiot, by the way.”

“Why?”

“Talk to her.”

Jurian glares at him. “One”, he says, “stay out of my private life. Two: I`m not the one who _lied about everything_.”

“That`s your problem? That she lied?”

“My problem”, Jurian snaps, “is that she didn`t trust me.”

“So now you`re proving to her that she was right not to?”, Helion asks, “Because this is how she will interpret it. As you hating her for being a witch.”

Jurian sighs. Like he could ever hate her. “This is not how it is.”

Helion crosses his arms. “I don`t get it”, he says, “She was a slave in the Black Land. And I know that you have a basic idea at the very least of what that means. So what were you expecting? An uncomplicated relationship? For it to be _easy_?”, Helion laughs, “If that`s what you want, then you should find yourself another female.”

“I don`t want anyone else”, Jurian says. That had been what he`d told Miryam. That he`d chose her over any other female. And that he knew it would be hard, but didn`t care.

And then, at the first true test, he`d failed. Had proven quite thoroughly that it _did_ matter. Had gotten angry and made the situation about himself.

Jurian jumps to his feet. “I`m such an idiot.”

“My words exactly”, Helion says, but Jurian is already running past him.

Miryam isn`t in her tent. Both Tia and Mor have no idea where she is. But Jurian knows her better than either of them, so he has an idea where to look.

He finds her just outside the camp, sitting under an old oak, back leaning against the trunk, Kiel on her shoulder. The falcon shrieks as Jurian approaches, but Miryam doesn`t so much as look at him.

“May I sit down?”, Jurian asks. Miryam nods and he sits down next to her.

“I`m sorry”, they both say simultaneously, then look at each other, “Why?”

Jurian snorts, a smile tugs at Miryam`s lips. 

“Me first”, she says, “I`m sorry for not telling you the truth. And for snapping at you. You were right, but that... it was a sore point.” She shakes her head. “I should have told you. I _wanted_ to tell you. But I couldn`t.”

Jurian nods. “I`m sorry for the way I reacted”, he says, “You were right - you never made a secret of the fact that your past was private. I told you it didn`t matter and then I acted like an ass.”

“To be fair, that was a bit more than what you could have possibly expected”, Miryam murmurs.

“Doesn`t matter. I should have stood by you.” He closes his eyes. “Can you forgive me?”

Miryam makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Of course”, she whispers, “Of course I can. But... I`m a _witch_ , Jur. Doesn`t it matter at all?”

He should have known. The fact that she kept this a secret was never about trust, never about _him_ , but all about her hating her powers and expecting everyone else to do the same. 

He turns towards Miryam and carefully reaches out for her hand. “No”, he says, “I couldn`t care less, actually. Because it is just power. Nothing else. And power is never good or evil - it`s all about who has it.” He gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “And you, Miryam, you are good.”

Miryam is shaking now. Her breathing is going uneven. She wipes a hand over her eyes and Jurian sees that she`s crying.

“I`m sorry about how I reacted”, he says, “I was just so hurt that you didn`t trust me. Like you being a witch could ever change anything about the fact that _I love you_.”

Miryam turns to him. “Could you... could you say that again?”

“I love you”, Jurian whispers.

Miryam smiles. There are still tears in her eyes, but also happiness. She pulls him closer, Jurian leans down to her

And then, they are kissing

Jurian never wants this moment to end. But unfortunately, Kiel isn`t pleased at all by what they are doing. He flaps his wings, shrieking. A wing catches Jurian at the head. Him and Miryam pull apart. She gently chases the bird off, then turns back to Jurian.

“Sorry”, she whispers.

Jurian smiles and pulls her close again. His lips brush against hers and they are kissing again. He should have done this sooner. Much sooner. Looking back, he can`t understand anymore why he didn`t.

Somehow, they end up lying in the grass under the oak. His fingers are searching for the buttons of her tunic and-

"Wait!"

The sheer panic in Miryams voice makes him stop short. Hastily, he untangles himself from her and pulls back.

"Did I hurt you?", he asks.

Miryam shakes her head, but she is trembling.

It takes him a moment too long to understand. Looking back, he should have considered the possibility a lot sooner.

Carefully, Jurian steps back, bringing some space between them. Miryam is still shaking. He wishes there was some way to comfort her, but he feels like getting closer will make things worse.

"I'm sorry", he says softly.

Miryam shakes her head. "It's not your fault", she whispers, "I'm a mess."

Jurian wonders if he can get her to tell him the name of the Fae bastard (he prays there was just one) who did this to her. So that he can find him. And end him. Slowly. Painfully.

Miryam pulls herself together surprisingly quickly. Voice steady, she says, "I'm sorry. That was..."

Jurian shakes his head. "You don't ever have to apologize for that. I should have asked if you were fine with this.”

When Miryam doesn't reply, he asks, "Do you want me to leave?"

She shakes her head. "Stay. But just... Can we not..."

"We don't do anything that you aren't comfortable with, all right?”, he says, “Every step of the way, you get to decide. And if you decide that you don't ever want to have sex, then that's fine, too."

Miryam smiles a bit shakily. "Thank you. For understanding."

Carefully, Jurian sits down next to her. Miryam reaches for his hand.

“I love you, too”, she whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there`s anyone reading this, it would be great if you could give some kind of sign if you like this story (please).


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There`s a little time jump between the last chaper and this one. I`ll likely have to jump forward a few months from time to time, because the War lasted seven years and if I write about every single day, I`ll never finish this XD

## Chapter 13

***Seven months later***

The past months have been going great for the Alliance, and especially for Jurian`s army. They have been winning battle after battle. By now, there are rumours going around that their enemies` magic has little effect on them. Some soldiers even whisper that the gods (whichever ones they worship) are on their side, that they have blessed the human armies and are keeping them from harm.

Jurian wonders what they`d say if they knew the truth.

With a mixture of amazement and jealousy, he watches Miryam draw a symbol on the hilt of another sword. It glows softly, then vanishes into the hilt. It is the middle of the night and they are alone in the armoury, something Jurian made sure of in advance.

Getting Miryam to actually use her powers even in such small capacity has been a struggöe that lasted almost two months, but it was well worth it. The impatient part of him wants to push her to do more, to use her power in the way rumour claims witches are able to. (If he was the one born with this power, he certainly wouldn`t hesitate. He hates to admit it, but sometimes, he is almost jealous.) Jurian doesn`t push, though. Of course he doesn`t.

“You don`t have to watch every time, you know?”, Miryam says, “Surely it is boring for you.”

“Your company could never be boring.”

Jurian steps closer to Miryam to gently put his arms around her waist. Miryam laughs and Jurian presses a kiss on her neck. He`d love to continue this, but the time for their nightly activities is limited, so he lets go of her.

“You could teach me, you know”, he says.

Miryam stiffens ever so slightly, as she takes up the next sword. “No.”

“Why not?” Jurian has been thinking about that question for quite some time. Ever since he saw the kind of difference even a spell as simple as that, a bit of protection against the Fae`s magic, can make. “You told me that some spells can be used even by humans.”

“If you overstep your limits, you die. And the magic takes your soul as a price.” Miryam doesn`t look up from the sword she`s just working on. “I won`t be responsible for that.”

Jurian is about to argue that he`ll be careful when another thought occurs to him. “Wait. But that doesn`t mean it`s dangerous to _you_ , right?”

“Don`t worry. I`ll be fine.” Miryam puts down one sword and takes up another one. “Do you have any idea what that emergency meeting tomorrow is about?”

"You're the politics experts", Jurian says, "I'm just around to give those Fae pricks a good beating."

"You give yourself too little credit."

Jurian laughs. "Now that's something I've never been accused of. Would you feel better if I said that I'm a better commander than half of these pointy-eared bastards."

Miryam smiles and says lightly, "As the local politics expert, I'd feel better if you'd stop insulting our allies."

"How about you get me an aerial army and I learn to hold my tongue?"

It isn't an outrageous demand. Helion and his soldiers had to leave almost two months ago already (not that Jurian had minded. Miryam had been growing quite a bit too fond of Helion with his constant flirting). And two weeks ago, the soldiers from Sangravah were pulled out, too. As annoying as the Fae can be, they fight well and Jurian's army is short a few soldiers without them.

"I'll try", Miryam says. As one of the councilmembers in charge of the organisation between camps, she is certainly in a position to do it, but moving troops is always complicated.

Miryam turns back to her work, but she seems tense. Like something is wrong. Jurian wrecks his mind for what it might be, but with her, there are many options.

Finally, he says, "You don't have to worry about the meeting. If it was something bad, we'd have heard already."

Miryam frowns. "They don't call meetings with the entire alliance easily. Usually, it's just whoever is needed or can be bothered to show up."

Which means that usually, Miryam is there and Jurian isn`t. With the alliance now in place for a while, fractions have formed and Miryam is... well, maybe not the leader but certainly one the most important players in one of those. Jurian only bothers to go to meetings if he knows something important will be discussed.

“If anything bad had happened”, he says, “we would have heard. They wouldn`t wait until the meeting to tell us.”

Miryam looks relieved, at least a tiny bit. Sighing, she puts the sword she was working on back into its place.

“Done for tonight”, she says, “Want to go somewhere?”

“Another moonlight walk? You know how well the last one went.”

Miryam narrows her eyes and Jurian grins at her.

“Let`s go. You know I love courting danger.” Jurian loops his arm through Miryam's and leads her out of the armoury.

Together, they walk through the camp. In the middle of the night, it is quiet here. The few soldiers on guard quickly look the other way as they pass, some of them hide grins. (Their relationship is a favourite subject of camp gossip - not just here, but through the entire camp. Their sneaking around will likely be known to everyone around by morning, but the true reason will remain secret.)

There is a small river running next to the camp, just far enough away that the guards won`t be able to see them. Miryam sits down on a stone. She pulls off her shoes and lets her feet dangle into the water. Jurian sits down next to her and she leans her head against his shoulder.

“I`m scared”, she finally says.

“Of what?” He hesitates. “Her?” (Speaking Ravenia`s name, he learnt, is just as bad an idea as asking after Miryam`s past.)

After the incident with the bounty hunters, they haven`t heard anything from Queen Ravenia again. Well, they heard plenty of her armies, slaughtering their way through the Southern Continent, but nothing related to Miryam. Apparently, the bounty hunters didn`t tell anyone about Miryam. They got lucky and so far, there is no sign that things are about to change.

“No. Not... her.” Miryam shakes her head. “I don`t know. It`s stupid, really.”

“I`m sure it isn`t.”

“My life is going great”, she says quietly, “I have somewhere I belong, and friends and _you_. But that means I have so very far to fall, too. I just keep expecting something to go wrong.”

Jurian pulls her closer. “That`s life, Miryam”, he says, “Nothing is ever certain, everything can be lost. But that just makes it more precious.” He thinks of all the soldiers he saw die while he was working his way up through the ranks of the rebellion. Of his parents, dead before he was old enough to truly understand the word. He takes Miryam`s hand. “But I can promise you one thing”, he says softly, “As long as I`m alive, you won`t ever lose me.”

\----

Taking the Callian Pass may have had a large strategic advantage for the Alliance as a whole. However, for the Seraphim aerial army, it turns out to be a rather unfortunate choice. Because for the past seven months, they have been stuck there.

Drakon has written (well, signed) fifteen letter to the Alliance already, asking them to have someone replace them. The answers have been pretty phrases that all held the same meaning: No. One of the disadvantages, apparently, of having one of the only aerial armies on the Continent.

“What a bunch of crap”, Drakon mutters, frowning at the papers before him and crosses out a paragraph, “Won`t work.” He reads the next one and crosses it out, too. Half a minute later, the entire paper ends up in the bin.

Groaning, Drakon takes out a huge, leather-bound book and flips it open. There has to be some kind of precedent. There is _always_ a precedent or at least something you can use as a starting point.

Sinna, as usual, enters without knocking. When she sees the papers and book strewn around the room, she rolls her eyes.

“We`re in the middle of a war, and you`re spending your time with a bunch of books?”

“We`re in the middle of a war and I`m trying to find a solution to the problem that causes it.”

“Problem: Slavery. Solution: Free the slaves. It`s that simple.”

“Problem: Slavery _and_ half the Fae believing that humans are worth less than animals. Say we win this war and free all the slaves, that mindset will remain. If we don`t find a way to solve that, there will be another war. And another. Maybe not in a year, but eventually.”

Sinna sighs. “And how do you know that?”

Drakon points towards the books lying around. “Historical precedent and people who are smarter than me and were nice enough to write their ideas down. The only issue is that while I have found tons of examples of how things _didn`t_ work out, I`m still looking for some precedent of a situation like one ending well.”

“Then I have good news for you”, Sinna says.

“Oh?”

“Given how things are going, this war is going to take a few years at least. So you have plenty of time to find a solution.”

Drakon glares at her. "Not funny."

"Kind of funny, actually”, Sinna says, sitting down on a chair, "Come on, just look at yourself. You've really got the confident, charming Prince down by now. Your people love you - someone has to make sure you don't get over-confident. After all, the history is littered with arrogant asshole royals."

"Hardly any danger of that", Drakon says, "I'm well-aware of what most of the Continent thinks of me."

"Yes", Sinna says, "And you may become the best ruler Erithia ever had, but no one beyond our borders will notice if you keep hiding."

Drakon walked right into that, really. Another proof that he's absolutely horrible at politics.

"I'm not _hiding_ ", he says, "I'm focusing on what I'm good at and taking care of my people."

Sinna crosses her arms. “It`s an emergency meeting. Would it really kill you to go? Just this once.”

“I went to the Black Land _just once_ and look what it got me”, he snaps.

Sinna glares. Drakon glares back. He`s getting better at that, too. After a few seconds, Sinna sighs.

“Fine. Your choice.” She nods towards the papers. “Planning to get those published again?”

“Once I`m ready.” Which may just take a while yet. But, as Sinna said - this war is only just beginning.

\----

The meeting room is stuffed. It`s an emergency meeting, which means that most of the important Alliance members appeared personally. (Well, except for Prince Drakon, who seems determined to become the only ruler not to turn up at a single Alliance meeting. Miryam has begun a letter to him thrice now and thrown it in the fire each time without getting more than a few words written down.)

Miryam is almost halfway through greeting everyone by now. The High Lord of the Night Court approaches, dressed head to toe in midnight black, his expression stern. 

“Milord”, Miryam says and nods to him.

He gives her the barest incline of his head. “Lady.”

They never really got over their rough beginnings. The High Lord is not the kind of male to ever forgive having his hand forced by an eighteen years old half human. And perhaps Miryam is not the kind of female to ever like a male who allows a place such as the Hewn City to exist, either. But they made it work - mostly because Miryam has too much influence for the High Lord to risk an open confrontation.

“How does your court fare?”, she asks, “I heard that Hybern still gives you trouble.”

He nods gravely. “Due to those Spring Court bastards, no doubt. But if they think the Night Court will fall so easily, they are sorely mistaken. Even with some of our soldiers fighting on the Continent, we are still strong.”

Miryam refrains from saying that without the thousands of soldiers the Alliance sent, things would look much different. If anything, it's the Alliance helping out the Night Court, not the other way around, but like most of these royals, the High Lord would likely rather eat his sword than admit that.

Before she can think of anything to say, Noctus, the High Lord of Summer, joins the discussion. He nods to Miryam, then turns to address the other High Lord.

"Is it true that the Alliance had to send ten thousand troops to help defend your lands?"

The High Lord straightens. And just like that, Miryam is forgotten and the only thing the two males seem to care about anymore is their pissing contest.

Prythian males. Just typical.

Miryam takes her chance and sneaks off to find better company.

“Having fun?”, an amused voice asks from behind her.

Miryam turns around to Helion (technically also a Prythian male, but one she likes.) “I`ll never understand why you males can`t take your pissing contests outside.”

“Ah, but where would the fun be in that?” The heir of the Day Court grins at her. “I heard a rumour that the gods have blessed your armies and are protecting your soldiers from peril. Met any gods recently?”

“Ass”, Miryam mutters, softly enough that no one but him can hear her.

Helion laughs and winks at her. Apart from Jurian, he is the only one who knows the truth behind the rumours the soldiers have come up with. He even helped her test the spells she came up with before she wove them into the weapons. Beyond that, he was little help, unfortunately. The Guild is secretive, meaning that hardly anything about their powers is known to the outside. So Miryam has to figure everything out herself. (She`s getting better at it. By now, she has the basics of the language mastered.)

“Any idea what this meeting is about?”, Helion asks.

“No.” And it annoys Miryam to no end. Usually, she knows whatever is going on in the Alliance, but this time, there was no getting the information. “I heard a letter arrived, but Queen Nakia got hold of it first and refused to let anyone else see it. Not even Andromache was able to find any information.”

“You`re pissed.”

“Worried.” Miryam learned early on that missing vital information is a quick way to die. Usually a gruesome death. (Not that there were any other kinds of death in the Black Land.) So she prefers to have all the information and prepare accordingly.

“Well, we`re about to find out”, Helion says and nods towards the clock standing in the corner. “We should take our places.”

Miryam gives him a tight smile and slides into her seat next to Jurian. He puts an arm around her shoulder and begins absentmindedly toying with her hair. In spite of everything, Miryam relaxes a bit. 

It is Nakia who begins the meeting this time, smiling like a snake. Miryam has no doubt the female enjoys the power being the only one with vital information gives her.

“Yesterday”, the Queen says, “I received a letter. From the Loyalists.” She draws out each word, savouring it. “They request a meeting to discuss this war. A possible end to it.”

“An end?” Jurian snorts. “The only possible end is them freeing their slaves. If they`re unwilling to do that, they can shove their offer up their ass for all I care.”

A few people nod in agreement, but most - especially the Fae - remain silent. This is not good. Because these Fae may be ready to fight for human freedom, but in the end, they have no stake in this fight. If the Loyalists make a good enough offer, who knows what they`ll do. And Nakia, the damn fool, doesn`t even realise what that message might do. She just relishes the power.

That is why Miryam doesn`t like losing control over a situation.

“It`s not that easy”, one of the Fae says, “Such an offer should not be rejected without thought.”

“You`ve got to be kidding me”, Jurian mutters.

The Grand Duke of Sangravah says softly, “He has a point, you know? If we reject a peace offer without even letting them speak, it will make us look like the bad guys. And there are some territories still considering their alliance in this war.”

Worse than that, there seem to be some people at this very table contemplating their alliance. Likely the Loyalist`s intent. To strew discontent.

“We should agree to the meeting”, Miryam says, “Send a delegation, hear what they have to say. But one thing should be clear from the very beginning: There will be no peace unless slavery is abolished.”

There are nods and murmurs of agreement, but Miryam marks the faces of those who remain silent. The High Lord of the Night Court is among them.

Helion asks, “Do we know who will be leading the Loyalist`s delegation already?”

Miryam knows the answer. She knows the answer even before Nakia says, “Queen Ravenia of the Black Land.”

Miryam hates the fear that shoots through her at the name. How can the mere mention of the female still have such power over her?

“And who will lead ours?”, the Erithian emissary asks.

Miryam knows the answer to that question, too. And just this once, she cannot play the part. She does not know the right thing to say - Cauldron, she can barely contain her panic.

“I could do it”, the Grand Duke says. Miryam wonders if she`s the only one who notices that he is saying it to protect her. (Quite possible, since the identity of her former owner is still a closely guarded secret.)

But Andromache shakes her head. “I mean no offence, but surely you understand why this is unacceptable to us. The one representing our Alliance in this war cannot be Fae.”

Indeed, none of the human Alliance members look pleased. A few of the Fae, in turn, seem offended. Jurian is too busy watching Miryam with barely-concealed worry to look angry.

“You still don`t trust us?”, one of them hisses.

“This isn`t about trust”, Andromache replies, “but about the message we`re sending.”

Another Fae shrugs. “Why are we even discussing this? We all know the answer.”

The High Lord of the Night Court frowns. “While I certainly respect Lady Miryam`s abilities as an emissary”, he says, “she is still a girl of nineteen and in no way qualified to head a meeting this big.”

Miryam barely listens to the discussion raging around her, even though she`s now the one at its centre. She doesn`t want to go. She can`t. Ravenia will be there and she will recognize her. Memories flash through her head, blood and death and suffering. Fire burning her skin.

She cannot do this. Impossible. She may sacrifice everything, do everything for her people, but this is too much.

The argument is now turning into a full-fledged fight. And suddenly, Miryam can see it. The rift that is already beginning to form between them. It will only widen after the meeting. Fae territories will leave - not all, but some - and then, the tide will turn.

She closes her eyes and for once, she allows herself to remember. That last day, standing in the sand just beyond Ravenia`s palace. The vow she made. She ran afterwards.

She won`t run now.

She opens her eyes. “I can do it”, she says.

Everyone turns to her. Miryam lifts her chin. 

“You don`t have any qualification or authority to represent us”, the High Lord drawls.

Miryam holds his stare. “I have been representing this Alliance, _Lord_ , for weeks before _you_ ever joined. And I said: I can do this.”

“Miryam, you don`t have to...”, Jurian whispers, but she shakes her head.

“You`re wrong. I have to do this. And I will.”

She looks around, meeting all of their gazes. Daring each of them to object. No one does.

\----

Mor is covered in dirt and sore, but she feels alive. Like there`s lightning in her veins and she can do anything she wants.

It is always like this after battle. Even if the battle isn`t a real one but just a skirmish. It calls to some part of her. Some great, ancient beast that has perhaps always been living under her skin and breaks free whenever she fights.

In the seven weeks since Jurian has allowed her to fight her first battle, she has fought enough to know that the feeling will pass. It will pass and she will be left behind empty, her hands covered in blood that isn`t hers. Then, lying awake at night, Mor won`t feel great anymore. Not at all.

But for now, there are still adrenaline and magic thrumming through her veins. Mor takes a bowl of water from the table in her small tent and begins to wash her hands. Blood turns the water pink and she unceremoniously unfastens her dirty leather armour.

She has only just put one some light linen clothes when she hears a noise coming from behind her. The sound of a heartbeat. Mor whirls around, diving for her dagger. She stops when she recognizes Az standing in her tent.

He looks changed. Older, somehow. Azriel, of course, was never carefree like the rest of them, but now, there are shadows in his eyes that Mor never saw before. And a coldness that she doesn`t recognize.

“Az!” She dashes forward, closing the distance between them to hug him. His shadows lighten and Mor`s own gift whispers of his feelings. She pulls back. The last thing she wanted was to give him hope where there is none, but she hasn`t seen him in months and the reaction was instinctive.

“Are you all right?”, she asks, scanning him from head to toe. A part of her is itching to read him, but he won`t.

“I don`t have much time”, Az says, like he hasn`t heard her question. “The High Lord doesn`t know I`m here and I have to be back before he finishes the meeting. But I need your help.”

“Anything”, Mor says without even thinking about it.

Az dips his chin. “The High Lord sent Rhys to a camp in the South. It`s led by a commander named Pelior who has a grudge against nobility. He hates Rhys and without his father`s protection...”, he trails off.

“What can I do?”, Mor asks.

“Get him out. And fast. Pelior is making Rhys and his soldiers fight on the frontlines every time. Each battle might be the last.”

Dread tightens Mor`s stomach. Still, she says, “I don`t have the power to do such things. I can`t transfer his army.”

But Az shakes his head. “Cassian is a grunt soldier in one of the armies and I can`t do anything without the High Lord`s orders. It has to be you, or Rhys dies.”

“But-”

“I have to go.” 

Without waiting for her reply, Az vanishes. Mor remains standing in her tent for a moment, thinking through the possibilities. There are few enough. And something tells her she should hurry.

Mor frowns. The thought running through her head is reckless, near-crazy and relies entirely on her ability to lie. Not to mention that should it go wrong, she will be knee-deep in shit. But it is her only idea.

Still, Mor feels dirty when she sneaks into Jurian's tent. There are wards, but those allow Mor in. Carefully, she shifts through the desk until she finds his Alliance council seal.

Mor takes an empty paper from the desk and writes a letter, changing her writing enough that it won't be recognized. Then, she seals the letter and presses the seal into the wax.

Carefully, she puts the seal back to where she found it and leaves the tent. As soon as she is past the wards, she whispers a quick prayer to the Cauldron and winnows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I`m afraid that this chapter marks the end of the daily updates. Up until the last one, I had the chapters written out already, but now, this story is all caught up and writing 3-5k word-long chapters daily is not something I can do. So I`ll likely update roughly once a week, give or take a few days


	14. Chapter 14

## Chapter 14

The past seven months have easily been the worst in Rhys` life.

In the beginning, he didn't take Commander Pelior's threat seriously. He thought the male couldn't be that bad. Turns out he was wrong.

During every battle in the past seven months, Rhys and his Illyrians have been at the front lines. The most dangerous jobs were always theirs. And once the battle was done, they were the ones given the most dishonourable tasks. Digging latrines and protections for the camp, doing drudgery for the other soldiers.

The worst part is that Rhys can't do anything about it and that, in turn, makes him look weak in front of his soldiers. There is little Illyrians despise more than weakness and commanding them has become near-impossible. Rhys can no longer count the amount of punishments he had to deal out to maintain some semblance of order.

Rhys is tired. He`s so very tired that he just barely manages to keep his wings from dragging behind him while he walks through the camp. But he knows that he still cannot show weakness, because if he does, this command will end right here.

So he keeps standing in the middle of his camp, calling out orders to the soldiers surrounding him. He just hopes that today, no one will go against his orders. Just one day without trouble. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, it is. Because when he turns around, he sees Commander Pelior approaching. Rhys dips his chin in greeting, if only because he knows that it will only get worse if he doesn`t.

“It`s your lucky day, boy”, the male drawls. He looks even more pissed than usual.

“How so?”

Pelior waves a letter before his face. “You got reassigned, by orders of the Alliance council. Get your army ready, someone will come pick you up by midday.”

Rhys only just manages to keep his glee contained. He will leave. He will leave and if he`s lucky, he will never have to see Pelior again.

“Where to?”, he asks and maybe he does sound a tad too cheerful.

“Jurian`s camp. And don`t look so happy - from what I heard, he`s a hard bastard. He won`t like privileged little Fae pricks any more than I do.”

Rhys really doesn`t care. All he cares about is that he`ll be able to leave this cursed camp.

“If that was all, General”, he says, “then I`d like to get my army ready now.”

Without waiting for the male`s leave, he turns around and walks away.

Getting his soldiers ready in time proves to be quite a challenge. The soldiers are all tired and not at all pleased by having to move at such a sort notice. But by midday, their things are packed and they are all ready to take off.

Pelior looks almost disappointed when he sees that they are indeed on time. But Rhys barely has eyes for him, all he sees is the female next to him. Morrigan.

In the months they have last seen each other, Mor has changed a lot. For one, she isn`t wearing a dress, but light leather armour and there are blades strapped to her. But the biggest difference is the way she carries herself, the confidence in her gaze.

“Where does this order come from?”, Pelior asks.

Mor shrugs. “How would I know? I just got the message, same as you did.”

Rhys suddenly has a very bad feeling about where this new order is coming from. He just prays that Mor didn`t do anything stupid.

Pelior glares at her. Then, he turns around and storms off. As soon as he is out of sight, Mor breaks into a huge grin and all but jumps into his arms.

“I missed you”, she whispers.

“Likewise, cousin.” Rhys breathes in her scent and feels at home for the first time in months. But then, he remembers that his soldiers are watching and lets go. “What did you do?”, he asks softly.

“Nothing”, Mor says with a wide-eyed innocence that Rhys doesn`t believe for a moment.

But maybe she really didn`t do anything forbidden. Maybe she got one of her high-ranking friends to pull some strings for her. Rhys is more than willing to believe that he got lucky - just this once.

“Let`s go, then”, he says.

He takes Mor into his arms and they take off, his legion following behind. As soon as they are in the air and well away from any curious ears, Mor starts talking. At first, she tries to pry what happened in the past months from him, but Rhys doesn`t want to talk about it. For this one moment, he just wants to be happy.

Finally, Mor gives up and starts talking herself. She speaks of all the things she saw in the past days, barely stopping long enough to breathe between sentences. She talks of training and fighting, of meetings and the friends she made. (It is strange, really. Miryam and Jurian are both stories whispered around campfires at night, but Mor talks about them like they are just her friends.)

The flight to Jurian`s camp takes two hours. By the time they land, Rhys is well and truly caught up on Mor`s life and his mood has significantly improved.

They are greeted by a frowning human woman who Mor greets with a grin.

“What is that?”, the woman asks and nods towards the Illyrians setting up camp.

“Our new Fae army. Haven`t you heard?”

Rhys has a really, really bad feeling about this.

The woman`s frown deepens. “No. We weren`t supposed to get any new soldiers yet.”

“Maybe another mix-up”, Mor says lightly, “Well, either way. That`s my cousin Rhys. Rhys, this is Tia, Jurian`s second-in-command.”

“Nice to meet you”, Rhys says.

“Well, then. Make yourself at home.”

While Rhys has them set up camp, he does his best to convince himself that this is indeed a mix-up. It almost works - up until a human man stops before him.

“When did we get an aerial army?”, he asks, “And why do I only hear about it now?”

Mor winces ever so slightly. “Hey Jurian. How was the meeting?”

Rhys watches the man that is rumoured to be one of the most brilliant commanders in this war. He looks barely older than him.

“Horrible.” He jerks his chin towards Rhys. “Are you the commander?”

Rhys nods silently, remembering Pelior`s warning. 

But Jurian grins. “Wonderful. I`ve always wanted an aerial army. Now, if you`ll excuse me, I have to go looking for Miryam.”

Rhys nods again and watches him walk off. Then, he turns around to give his soldiers one final, sharp reprimand to stay away from the mortals and drags Mor off to his newly erected tent.

“What did you do?”, he asks as soon as they are alone.

“Nothing. Why do you think I did anything?” But she looks a tad too guilty.

“Morrigan. What did you do?”

“Forged official papers”, a voice says from the ten`s entrance. Both Rhys and Mor spin around to the female standing in the entrance. Rhys recognizes her from her visit to the Night Court. “She used an Alliance seal - likely Jurian`s, since I have mine with me and there is really no other way she could have gotten one - and used it to legitimise an order to transfer your soldiers here. She also sent a fake order to herself, likely to make it seem more legitimate.” She turns to Mor. “That about covers it. Right?”

Mor winces. “Miryam...”

“What were you thinking, Mor?”

“I was _thinking_ ”, she replies a tad more sharply, “that I couldn`t let my cousin die. And I didn`t want to involve you, so I solved the problem myself.”

“Solved?” Miryam shakes her head. “You solved nothing. You think this won`t be investigated? This is high treason - they could hang you!”

Mor shakes her head wildly, but she has gone pale. “There are constantly mix-ups!”

Rhys considers banging his head against the table. His cousin can be just as reckless as Cassian when she wants to.

“And there is always investigation!”, Miryam replies, “Especially when people are running around forging letters by the council.”

Rhys` heart is beating wildly. This can`t be happening. 

“What can I do?”, he asks.

Miryam turns around to him like she hadn`t noticed he was even there. “It`s already solved”, she says.

“What?”, Mor and Rhys ask in unison. 

Miryam sighs. “When commander Pelior turned up here, demanding an explanation, I told him the order had come from me. So there won`t be any repercussion.”

Mor shakes her head. “You... but why?”

“What part of _you could hang for that_ was so hard to understand?” Miryam crosses her arms. “Besides, I now look like an incompetent idiot in front of the entire Alliance for that order, so thank you very much.”

Mor opens her mouth, but before she can actually reply, Jurian enters the tent, a bit out of breath. Miryam spins around to him.

“What`s wrong?”, she asks.

“Our scouts just spotted an army. Two thousand soldiers, under a Hybern General named Amarantha.”

Rhys jumps to his feet, Miryam and Mor both look like they are about to run out of the tent, but Jurian says, “They have a witch."

Miryam freezes, Mor mutters a curse. Rhys looks between them, everything he heard about the Guild replaying in his mind. This is bad.

They are already outnumbered and with a witch on the playing field, he won't be able to help. After all, he is the only one who might stand a chance against a member of the Guild. (Even though he doubts it. Spells aren't his speciality and he is about to be in serious trouble.)

He looks at the others standing in the tent. For a moment, they don't look like commanders in this war, the great and powerful leaders of the Alliance. They are just a bunch of children, in way over their heads.

\----

Miryam takes the news well, at least on the outside, but Jurian knows her well enough to see her panic. He quickly ushers Mor and her cousin - Rhysand? - out of the tent and turns to her.

“You have to do something”, he hisses.

She shakes her head wildly. “I can`t.”

Jurian wishes he could let it go. He wants to let it go so badly. But he has more than a thousand soldiers out there, soldiers who might all die today. And it is a simple fact that the only person who can truly, effectively fight a witch is another witch. There is simply no _time_ for Miryam to run from who she is anymore.

“Do something”, he snaps, “Or every soldier who gets killed today will be your fault!”

Miryam flinches back like he struck her, but she still shakes her head. “You don`t understand”, she whispers, voice trembling, “Even if I wanted to... Do you truly think I could go up against a trained member of the Guild and win?”

“I think you have to try!”

Miryam lowers her head. “Go to your soldiers, Jurian.”

Now, he is the one who has to hide a wince. Miryam rarely ever calls him by his full name. He hates it when she does.

Without another word, he storms out of the tent.

It takes Jurian exactly five minutes to regret talking to her that way. He _knows_ what things are like with Miryam - what was he thinking, pushing her like that? (Then again, he has his soldiers to think of. He has a responsibility to them.) Still, arguing like that just before battle seems like bad luck.

But right now, he is busy with the battle preparations. Besides, apologies aren`t Jurian`s strong suit - especially when he was kind of right. The longer he looks at his soldiers, people who might not survive the next hours, the less inclined does he feel to apologize, anyways.

Instead, he goes looking for Rhysand. The male is surrounded by a bunch of his soldiers who all ignore his orders. Rhysand has to repeat them thrice before the males start moving. Jurian softly shakes his head. Children running armies. (He knows, of course, that he is at least ten years younger than Rhysand. But there is no way he was ever that young. Cauldron, Miryam is _nineteen_ and she seems older than that male.) None of the winged Fae make space for Jurian, so he pushes through them, using his elbows to make them move.

“What`s the matter?”, he asks once he reaches the boy.

“They heard there is a witch fighting on the opposite”, Rhysand replies, “Illyrians and witches don`t get along. They are scared and they don`t want to fight.”

The Illyrians surrounding them begin murmuring, some even curse at their commander for the insult. When Rhysand repeats his orders, they follow without an argument. Jurian has to hide a smile. Smart move, playing on their pride.

“The witch”, he says, “Can you do anything?”

Rhysand frowns. “I don`t know. I`m powerful, but this isn`t really about power. I can try shielding, but anything else...” He shrugs helplessly. “If the witch would be on the battlefield, it would be different, but they usually aren`t. I wouldn`t be able to get to her if I tried.”

Jurian nods. _Damn it, Miryam._

“Then get your legion ready. And better be prepared for a nasty fight.”

With that, he turns around and rushes off towards his soldiers. He doesn`t see Miryam in the entire twenty minutes it takes to get his army ready. He doesn`t seek her out, either. They both made their positions clear.

There really isn`t much else left to do, really. Now, it`s up to the soldiers.

\----

Miryam stands on a hill and watches the battle. The other healers are there, too, waiting for the wounded that are bound to come piling in any moment now. But for the moment, all that’s left for her to do is watch.

The two armies draw up, neat, organised lines marching towards each other. They are too far away for Miryam to recognize any individuals, but she’s sure that Jurian will be at the frontlines. Mor, too. The Illyrian soldiers take flight, a cloud of black wings rising to the air. She can see the magic glowing around them from here. (The Illyrian’s killing power looks dark brown.) But the approaching army has far more magic than they do - and the humans have none.

“This will be bad”, one of the healers murmurs.

Miryam nods silently. She knows that she should find words of encouragement, but words seem foreign and hard to reach.

Below, the armies come within shooting distance of each other. Volleys of arrows shoot through the air. Magic meets shields, the strings in the air glowing brightly enough that Miryam has to keep from squeezing her eyes shut against the onslaught.

She is too far away to see anything and it drives her crazy. Now that the armies are truly engaged in battle, it is impossible for her to make out what is happening below. But so far, the magic seems to act completely normal - there is no sign of a witch messing around with it.

A shriek from above catches Miryam’s attention. She looks up and finds Kiel circling above. She pulls on a leather glove and holds up her arm for the falcon to land on.

“I’m jealous of you, you know?”, she tells the falcon, “If I had wings like you, I could fly down there and take a look myself.”

Kiel clicks his beak and stares at her from his amber eyes. Miryam wishes she could truly talk to the bird, but as far as she knows, there was no truth to the rumour of witches being able to talk to animals. (Or maybe the animals do understand her and the problem is just that she can’t understand them.) Miryam reaches out a hand and gently runs her fingers through his feathers. 

What happens next is strange. Miryam feels like her mind is stretching. Then, she isn’t in her body anymore - or a part of her is still there, standing on that hill. But she is also the falcon sitting on her own arm, staring at herself.

It is, perhaps, the strangest thing to ever happen to her.

She can feel Kiel’s consciousness brushing against hers, the bird’s thoughts a strange mixture of pictures, colours and feelings. _Fly_ , Miryam thinks and the falcon takes off. She watches through its eyes as it soars towards the battlefield. It takes half a thought and the falcon flies lower until she can see the battle field.

So that is why people whisper that witches can talk to animals - because they can switch into their bodies and ask them to do their bidding.

Through the falcon`s sharp eyes, Miryam sees the fighting unfold. She finds Jurian and Mor within a few seconds - they are, as usual, where the fighting is thickest. Standing back to back, they fend off the Fae assaulting them. Miryam looks on and finds the enemy commanders - two females, both of them with the same red hair, wearing Hybern`s crest on their bloodied armour.

At Miryam`s command, Kiel flies higher until he is flying far above the fighting, even higher than the Illyrians, who are battling Hybern`s aerial army. So far, there was no sign of a witch on this battlefield, but Miryam seems to remember hearing that most members of the Guild don`t fight at the front lines. Witches are too rare, their lives to valuable, to risk in simple battle.

Kiel flies beyond Hybern`s lines and begins to circle there. For the first time in her life, Miryam wishes she could see the lines, but apparently, this is not possible while she is in a bird`s body. So she has to resort to flying circles of growing radius behind Hybern`s lines.

Until she finds a solitary figure standing by the side. A few soldiers are waiting in a respectful distance, guarding her, and the female is standing in the middle of a too-familar circle. Kiel flaps closer and Miryam gets a better look on the witch. She is blonde, her skin just as light as her hair, and beautiful in the way all High Fae are.

Miryam can see her mouth moving, but the falcon`s ears are not as good as his eyes and she cannot hear the words. But whatever she is saying, it makes the circle around her begin to glow more brightly with each word.

Miryam understands what is about to happen just in time for her to get Kiel to fly higher. Below her, power blasts out. Even from the distance, the power sings Kiels` feather tips and makes him slinger. Flapping his wings, Kiel flies higher and then, Miryam is back in her own body.

Gasping for air, she stumbles aside. A hand reaches out to steady her and a worried voice asks if she is alright, but all she sees is the battlefield. There is a dark sheen over the Illyrians` magical auras, making it seem muted. Not entirely gone, but slightly suppressed.

“Miryam”, one of her healer-friends asks, “What is wrong?”

“I... I have to go.” She shakes off the woman`s hand. “Take over organisation for a moment, will you? I`ll be back as soon as possible.”

Without waiting for a reply, she spins around and runs off, back to the camp. It is almost half a mile to go and she pushes her half-Fae speed as much as possible. The guards shoot her a strange look as she runs past them, but let her pass without hesitation.

Miryam reaches her tent. She rips the mattress straight off her bed and pulls out the book and the bag where she keeps everything she might need for her magic. With that, she leaves her tent and runs back.

By the time she reaches the battlefield again, the tide has turned against them. The Alliance soldiers are being pushed back further and further. And to make things worse, Miryam can see the strings flying through the air, warning her of the spell to come.

She stops on a small hill, well away from anyone who might be caught in the crossfire. She draws her knife and runs it over her forearm, wincing slightly. Blood wells up and Miryam begins drawing symbols on the ground. In her haste, she messes up the second one and has to wipe it away to start anew. Her fingers are shaking by the time she sets up the candles, then the bones. There are more powerful materials to use, but Miryam doesn`t have those. And noon or midnight would be better, but she has little choice.

Miryam flips open the book (by now, it is as easy as breathing) and starts flipping through the pages. But before she can so much as read the first spell, the strings in the air get more hectic. Miryam can feel the power on her skin. When she looks out over the battlefield, she can see the strings moving, beginning to weave together to form a spell.

No time left. Miryam begins speaking the words to activate the circle. By now, she knows that it is meant to tether her to the world and draw power from the earth for her to use. The flames flicker to life and trap her in a circle of light.

The circle is ready, but the witch`s spell is too fast. Miryam will never get even halfway through a spell before whatever that witch is trying to do will succeed. She drops the book and turns towards the battlefield.

The net the witch is waving is growing tighter by the second. Miryam still doesn`t understand enough to know what she is trying to do, but she does know how to name the strings, how to command them.

She begins speaking. In the language of the universe, each word making her throat burn. But this time, there are no instructions, no book to guide her. She is just desperately trying to undo whatever the other witch is trying to do.

Miryam feels the female noticing. She can see her scrambling for control over the strings, but she keeps pushing back. This is a battle she might win. Because she may be less experienced and less powerful, but the female is running out of time with each passing second. Once a spell is begun, it needs to be finished, so if she manages to hold on until the witch comes to the end of her spell, she will win this.

Miryam thought she‘d see in advance when the spell was about to finish. But there is no real warning. One moment, she is trying to loosen another strand. Then, there is power rushing through the air. She manages to hold it off for a grand total of two seconds before the pain becomes too much to bear and the spell slips past her hold. The strings are flying apart as the power rushes over the battlefield. Like the shockwave of a big explosion.

Miryam only just manages to hold up her hands before her head before the power slams into her and sends her flying through the air. The circle flickers once, then the candles go out and she lands on the ground with enough force to push the air from her lungs and make her ribs crack.

„Ouch“, Miryam mutters.

With shaking arms, she pushes herself up from the ground. The front of her clothes is scorched and torn. She wonders why her using magic always ends with her lying on the ground, feeling like her body is burning up from the inside.

She only just manages to twist aside before she vomits up a mouthful of blood.

\----

The enemies retreat. Mor can‘t quite believe it. One moment, they were being pushed back further and further, the next, there was magic in the air and their enemies turned tails and ran.

Mor has no idea what happened. The soldiers around her seem to feel the same. They are already whispering amongst each other, claiming the gods were watching over them and sent a blast of magic down to save them. Mor doesn‘t believe it for one second. Panting, she wipes sweat off her brow. Her hands leave smears of blood behind. Next to her, Jurian is already giving orders to his soldiers. In his blood-splattered leather armour, eyes blazing, he looks like a warrior straight out of myth. Except that none of those were ever human.

He turns to Mor. „I need a favour”, he says softly, „Could you please go looking for Miryam and check if she is alright?“

Mor frowns at him. Of all the things that need to be done after a battle like this, checking in on Miryam who wasn‘t even fighting does not seem like the most important thing to do. But Jurian has already gone back to shouting out orders, so she shrugs and turns around.

On her way through the post-battle chaos, she catches a short glimpse at Rhys, who is shouting at his own soldiers, but otherwise seems alright. She catches hold of one of the healers.

„I‘m looking for Miryam“, she says. The human woman shrugs. „No idea where she went off to. She left in the middle of the battle and hasn`t been back.“

Now, Mor is a little worried. During every battle in the last months, Miryam always watched and spent the hours afterwards helping with the wounded and organising the clean-up. Running off without a reason doesn‘t seem like her friend at all. She walks faster, almost runs now.

She finds Miryam on a hill overlooking the battlefield. She is kneeling on the ground, blood splattered on her clothes. Cursing, Mor dashes for her.

„Mor.“ Miryam makes a valiant but hopeless attempt to get up. „What are you doing here?“

Mor ignores the question. „What happened?“, she asks with barely concealed panic. She can‘t see an injury, but the blood has to come from somewhere. She reaches out for Miryam. „I‘ll take you to a healer.“

„No!“ Miryam twists aside to stop Mor from grabbing for her and winnowing her away. „It‘s fine. I don‘t need a healer.“

Mor is about to tell her that this is bullshit when she sees the circle on the ground. The grass around it is burned to ash, but she can still see the remains of strange symbols and candles lining its edges. Mor spins around to Miryam.

„You...“ She can‘t bring herself to finish the sentence.

It is impossible. Utterly impossible for about a dozen reasons, the least of which being that no person who isn‘t entirely High Fae has ever been a witch. So Mor does something that she has never done before - at least not with Miryam. She reaches out with her power and reads her.

The ability to read others is a strange part of her power - the ability to see the truth of another person, the very core of their being. It‘s never concrete - a mixture of feelings and pictures and colours. With Miryam, it is different.

Mor flinches back, gaping. Reading Miryam feels like touching lightning. She can‘t get a proper read except for that power.

„What did you _do_?“, Miryam asks, staring at her.

Mor shakes her head. „You‘re a witch.“

She can sense the truth in her own words. But it is impossible. Gentle, strong, human Miryam can‘t be a witch. Miryam bites her lip and lowers her eyes, but doesn‘t reply. „How long?“, Mor asks softly.

Miryam shrugs. „My first bleeding. I was seventeen.“

Mor tries and fails not to let it sting. In the eight months they have known each other, Miryam never once thought to mention it to her. Even when Mor told her everything about what her parents had done to her. Even when Jurian obviously knew. ( _Don‘t be ridiculous_ , she tells herself, _Jurian is her lover. Of couse he knew._ )

„You‘re angry“, Miryam whispers.

„No.“

Only when she speaks the words does she understand that they are true. And maybe she really doesn`t have a right to be angry at anyone for keeping secrets. After all, there is always one thing she`ll never be able to tell anyone.

„ _Jurian_ was angry when he found out.“

That, she can imagine quite vividly. Although she can also imagine that once he got over his bruised ego, he would be beyond excited. (She sincerely hopes that Jurian loves Miryam more than the weapon her powers might become.)

“I`m not”, Mor says quietly, “Now, do you need anything?”

Miryam shakes her head. “I have to get back. People will notice I`m missing.”

_People will notice what you did_ , Mor thinks. But she doesn`t say it. Instead, she nods towards the circle.

“Can I touch that, or will I turn into a mouse if I do?”

Miryam smiles ever so slightly and gets up through what can only be sheer determination. “Not sure. We probably shouldn`t try it.”

\----

Jurian hugged her and told her she was amazing when they ran into each other in the camp. Miryam doesn‘t feel amazing, though. She feels tired enough that she might fall asleep right where she stands. Instead, she keeps trying to patch up the scores of wounded soldiers.

She sends a young human woman with a freshly bandaged cut on her arm on her way and turns to the next soldier: an Illyrian male with a gash all the way through his stomach, being carried by two of his brothers-in-arms. She makes to step towards them, but the Illyrians reel back. One of them forms a sign with his left hand.

„Aje“, he hisses

„What?“

„Witch.“

Now, it is Miryam who flinches. But she shakes her head, too tired to deny it.

„Just let me help him.“ She takes a step towards the soldier, but the Illyrians flinch back.

„Stay away from him, soul-thief!“

Miryam is too tired to think anything by it. She just sees the blood staining the soldier`s uniform.

„I‘m going to help him“, she tells the soldiers, „And I‘d suggest you don‘t stop me.“

When she steps forward, the soldiers step back, leaving their injured companion behind. Miryam barely notices the soldiers staring at her as she kneels down next to him. It takes almost half an hour to get his stomach stitched up, but he will survive.

Stumbling, Miryam pushes herself up off the ground. People are still staring. She wonders how that soldier knew. Wonders if he told everyone, if by now, the entire camp knows.

This was not supposed to happen. Oh Cauldron, everyone will know. This was _never_ supposed to happen.

“Hey.” Suddenly, Jurian is standing behind her. He lightly takes her arm. “Are you okay?”

Miryam manages a shaky smile. “Sure.”

Jurian still puts an arm around her waist and not-so-subtly begins leading her to his tent. “Really? Because Mor told me that just an hour ago, you were retching up blood.”

“Did she, now?” 

“Yes. And I seem to remember _you_ telling me that you would be fine.”

Miryam turns around to glare at him. “So you`re blaming me for getting hurt?”

“ _No_. Cauldron, Miryam!” Jurian shakes his head. “I would never... I pushed you. And if you had died, it would have been my fault. Had I known that you could get hurt, I would _never_ have asked this of you.”

They reach Jurian`s tent and Miryam slumps down on a cushion. 

“And what about the battle?”, she asks softly, “We would have lost. These soldiers would have died. So you`re telling me that you would have risked that, just to keep me safe?” She shakes her head. “You wouldn`t have, Jur. And we both know it. Because you and I, we would both sacrifice _everything_ to save our people.”

For a moment, they sit in silence. Jurian pours himself a glass of brandy from a bottle and drains it in one go. Then, he says, “Everything but you. I`m selfish like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked this! Next time, the meeting between the Alliance and the Loyalists takes place


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter: Suicide (not explicit)

## Chapter 15

There was no keeping what happened during the battle secret. Not when every healer saw Miryam run off and the Illyrians are, apparently, able to sense witches and have been close to revolt ever since they found out that one of the camp`s commanders is one.

Jurian feels horrible. He is well aware that this situation is almost entirely his fault. Miryam‘s most closely guarded secret is secret no longer. And she could have died. All because he pushed her. (Although if he is entirely honest, a part of him is also glad that it went this way. At least Miryam stopped hiding from her own power and can perhaps begin to use it properly. He doesn`t dwell on these thoughts too long, though, because they always make him feel like a prick.)

It is a good thing that the post-battle clean-up keeps Jurian extremely busy. That way, at least, he has reason to stay away from Miryam without having to admit to himself that he is too ashamed to face her. Instead, he gets into a fight with three Illyrians for hissing insults at her and sentences ten of his own soldiers to guard duty when he overhears them wondering if they want a half-Fae witch in their midst.

But - and this is the true surprise - the people hissing insults are outnumbered by far by those who seem awed by the news. He overheard more than one of them whispering of a blessing, a gift from the gods. It`s better than the others, but still somehow unsettling. 

„Jurian.“

He turns around to face Tia, who is running towards him, waving a letter.

„This just arrived from the Alliance“, she says.

„For me?“

„And Miryam.“ Tia winks at him. “But I thought I‘d deliver it to you and have you tell her.“ Jurian takes a face at her. Tia grins. „What? I didn`t watch you dance around each other for months only for you to bolt because you messed up once.“

Jurian snatches the letter out of her hand. He inspects the sear, then rips it open and scans the content. He curses softly. Now he is really going to have to talk to Miryam. He doubts it will be a pleasant conversation, though.

„I have to go“, Jurian says.

„Have fun!“, Tia calls after him.

Jurian makes a rather rude gesture over his shoulder. Miryam, fortunately, seems to be in her tent, saving him from having to search the entire camp for her. He hesitates for a moment before entering. There are voices coming from the inside.

“-will cover that order”, Miryam is saying, “With the battle, no one will even question it.”

“So we`re out of trouble?”, Mor asks, sounding relieved.

“Which”, Mor`s cousin cuts in, “is sheer dumb luck, Mor.”

“Oh, shut up!”

Jurian has to admit, he`s curious. He`d love to remain standing before the entrance, but he has already crossed one line lately. Eavesdropping on a private conversation (especially with lots of Fae who are likely to catch him) doesn`t seem like the smartest move. Besides, he has news to deliver.

Everyone turns to Jurian as he enters. Mor and her cousin exchange a look.

“We were just leaving”, Mor says.

She takes her cousin by the arm and shoves him out of the tent. Miryam smiles wryly, Jurian shakes his head.

“Do they think”, he asks, “that we don`t notice what they are doing?”

“Oh, I´m sure they just don`t care.”

Jurian grins, but sobers quickly. “About the camp talk…”, he begins, but is unsure about how to continue.

Miryam`s face tightens. “Don`t worry about it”, she says, “I always knew it would happen. Honestly, I`m surprised they aren`t calling for my head.”

Jurian clenches and unclenches his fingers. He`s already trying to come up with a way to shut down the talk, no matter what Miryam says. He knows, though, that this will be damn near impossible once the news pass beyond their camp, which is bound to happen anytime now.

“You should be angry with me”, he says.

“Maybe. But I`m not.” Jurian is about to reply, but she shakes her head. “Can we just drop it? Please?”

Jurian sighs and holds up the letter. “They set the time for the meeting.”

He didn`t think that Miryam could grow any tenser, but she does. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?” Now, Miryam is staring at him with wide eyes, like she is searching for a hint of a lie. Unfortunately, Jurian is telling the truth.

“At least by then, news of your abilities likely won`t have broken yet.” It`s a piss-poor attempt at comforting her, but he really can`t think of anything else.

“She`ll be there”, Miryam says softly.

Carefully, Jurian reaches out for her hand. “You won`t be alone”, he says, “I`ll be with you and it will be fine.”

Miryam nods, but the look in her eyes tells her that she sees straight through his empty words. Because Jurian may be going with her to the meeting, but he is no politician. During the discussions, she will be on her own.

——

Drakon is not having a pleasant day. He thought it couldn`t get much worse after the nightmare of a meeting he had this morning with Sinna and the commander of the unit the Alliance sent to replace them. They are from Prythian, with membranous bat-like wings. So far, Drakon‘s experiences with their new allies have been... difficult. In their meeting, the Illyrian leader kept sneering at Drakon and calling him boy – which was still polite compared to how he treated Sinna. Unsurprisingly enough, the meeting ended with the Illyrian`s nose broken and Drakon having to keep Sinna from killing the male.

In the two hours since the meeting ended, he was already called in to break up three fights between his soldiers and the new ones. (Sinna seems more inclined to start fights than to stop them these days, so he is stuck playing peacemaker.)

This round through the camp seems to be going better than the last one, though. It looks like the soldiers learned to stay out of each other`s way at last. Besides, Drakon and his soldiers will be leaving tomorrow so the tentative peace won`t have to last long, anyways.

Drakon reaches the waste disposal area. It seems like the now soldiers are already digging new latrines. Drakon looks into the hole in construction and is surprised to find only one soldier working inside.

“Where are the others?”, he asks, “Surely you aren`t supposed to dig the latrine all on you own?”

The soldier puts down his shovel and gives Drakon a wild grin. “Oh, I`m more than enough for one such hole.”

He seems far more pleasant than the other Illyrians Drakon met so far. Younger, too, which is somewhat refreshing. (These days, Drakon is usually surrounded by people at least a hundred years his senior.)

“Want me to help you?”, Drakon offers, “Otherwise, you`ll be busy until past midnight.”

“You _volunteer_ to spent your afternoon digging through hard dirt?” The Illyrian laughs. “Well, I can`t save you from yourself, then.”

Drakon takes that as a yes. He grabs a shovel that is lying next to the hole and jumps down. From there, he gets a better view of the male. There are seven red stones – syphons? – glinting on his armour. From what Drakon gathered, the amount of stones is usually related to a person`s rank.

„What did you do“, he asks, „to end up in this shithole?“

The male snorts at the pun. „Was born a bastard.“ He shrugs, grinning, „And mouthed off to Lord Devlon about getting his nose broken by a female.“

Drakon frowns. „If you knew half of the females I‘ve met, you wouldn‘t be surprised.“

The Illyrian laughs. „Oh, I know my fair share of scary females, too, so I wasn‘t surprised. But for Devlon, getting pummelled by a female is a new experience for him. Almost a pity you guys are leaving - maybe someone would be able to beat some sense into that thick head of his.“

„Well, as someone who has been stuck here for months, I`m looking forward to leaving.” Drakon thinks back to the look on Lord Devlon`s face after Sinna punched him and adds, “Although watching Sinna break that guy‘s nose might have been worth staying a while longer.“

“On first name basis with your general.“ The Illyrian whistles softly and throws a shovel of dirt out of the latrine. “You‘re highborn, aren‘t you?“

Drakon nods, unwilling to say any more on it. Maybe it‘s stupid, but it is freeing to be a normal person for once, instead of the Prince of Erithia. Like he isn‘t responsible for thousands of lives. The Illyrian seems to consider his answer for a moment, then nods.

„Where were you stationed before this?“, Drakon asks, happy to steer the conversation into a different direction.

„Further south.“ He wrinkles his nose. „Fighting these Black Land bastards. Fire magic really is no fun. You?“

„I‘ve been stuck here.“ Well, except for his brief visits to the other parts of the army and Erithia. „But we‘re leaving due north tomorrow. I can‘t say I‘m sorry to be leaving this place.“

The Illyrian laughs. „Oh, I can imagine. I‘ve been here for a day and already want to leave. It‘s-“ A bucket full of dirt hits him square in the face, cutting him off. Drakon spins around to the source of the attack.

„Hey, bastard!“, a voice shouts from above. Three Illyrians are standing at the edge of the latrine. „Enjoying eating dirt?“

Drakon frowns up at them. „Leave him be.“

„What is it to you?“, one of the Illyrians asks.

He kicks a bunch of dirt into the pit, but it bounces off harmlessly on the shield Drakon set up. For a second, he is sorely tempted to let the dirt they shovelled out of the pit in the last hours bury the soldiers under them. Unfortunately, getting into a fight with your allies is not a very prince-like thing to do. (Bad enough if Sinna does it.)

So instead, he does the mature thing and says, „I generally do not permit soldiers in my camp to provoke fights. So if you aren‘t here to help, I‘d suggest you leave.“

„Your camp?“, one of the soldiers snorts. “Sure. That`s why you`re digging around in the dirt.”

Drakon really doesn`t like most Illyrians, he decides. “Well, someone needs to dig the latrine, unless you`d prefer to take a shit in the middle of the camp”, he says, “And I`d not be a very good commander if I asked my soldiers to do something I`m not ready to do myself, would I?”

The soldiers exchange looks. Drakon is pretty sure that none of their leaders ever bothered with such undignified tasks. But they seem unwilling to risk a punishment, so they leave with barely any complaint.

Drakon turns back to his companion, who is watching him with raised eyebrows.

“You`re Prince Drakon of Erithia?”, he asks.

“Would you believe me if you said I`m not?”

The Illyrian laughs. “No.” He picks his shovel back up. “Well then, _Your Highness_. Better get back to work.”

\----

Miryam barely recognizes herself in the mirror. If she thought she was dressed up for previous meetings, it is nothing compared to this. 

The dress was a gift by the Grand Duke of Sangravah. It is all flowing silk, midnight black yet shimmering in the light. Around the hems, there are silver embroideries. With it came a necklace of diamonds glowing like stars and a diadem.

It makes Miryam look less like a girl of nineteen and more like a grown female. More than that. It makes her look like she belongs with these royals. An impression that couldn`t be more wrong.

From where he is sitting on her desk, Kiel lets out a shriek and puffs up his feathers. Miryam turns around to the bird.

“You`re wondering what I`m doing, aren`t you?”, she whispers, “Well, I don`t know either.”

Before she can change her mind and bolt as her entire body is screaming at her to, she steps out of the tent and into the camp. A bunch of passing soldiers stop short to stare at her. Jurian stops speaking in what appeared to be the middle of a conversation with Tia. Miryam blushes.

A few soldiers begin whispering amongst each other. “Witch”, Miryam hears, and “Gods-blessed”. She doesn`t know which word she loathes more. Before this can go any further, she steps towards Jurian. She doesn`t miss Tia giving him a nudge and Jurian quickly snapping back to attention.

“Let`s go”, Miryam says quietly.

Mor is tasked with winnowing them to the meeting place, although she herself is not invited to participate. She holds out her hand to Miryam.

“You look stunning”, she says, “Go show those pricks their place.”

Miryam manages a shaky smile, then Mor winnows them away. When they reappear, Mor only gives her hand a quick squeeze before she vanishes again, leaving Miryam and Jurian on their own.

The meeting is held in the Continent‘s neutral meeting space - a palace that was built by some long-ago king in the middle of a huge lake. It has been long since abandoned and after the three bordering territories spent centuries fighting over the island, it has been declared neutral ground.

The guards waiting at the gate belong to every territory, but it has been chosen that Alliance members are searched by Loyalist guards and vice versa. Miryam hands her dagger to a guard and then tries to keep a neutral look on her face as the guard begins searching her, hands lingering a bit too long for comfort. Next to her, Jurian looks like he considers punching the guard searching him. (Miryam wonders if it was perhaps a mistake to bring him along.)

But then, they are through the control. A far more friendly-looking guard points them to a glittering crystal bowl standing just before the entrance. Miryam takes a knife lying next to is and presses it agains ther palm lightly. A drop of blood wells up and falls into the bowl.

„I swear that while I am on these grounds, to do no harm to anyone here, not by action or intention. I swear it on my life and on my blood.“

The blood in the bowl turns to blinding light. Rays of it shoot up into the air and merge with the wards that encircle the palace. They are more complicated than any Miryam has ever seen. Far too complicated for her to ever understand. But when Miryam steps forward, the wards move aside to allow her through. A step behind her, Jurian whistles softly as they step into the foyer.

„Well, this is certainly impressive“, he mutters, looking up at the high ceiling and the ornate admonishments. Miryam nods, although she can‘t say she is overly impressed. Unlike Jurian, she has seen her fair share of Fae architecture and while she can usually still appreciate its beauty, today, the thrill is lost on her.

She barely spares her surroundings more than a glance and instead focuses on the assembled Fae. Her eyes scan the room with practiced ease, but the Black Land‘s delegation is not there yet. (A brief reprieve, Miryam knows. Still, she can‘t help feeling relieved.) There are other familiar faces, though.

Miryam knows most leaders of the Continent‘s bogger territories at least by sight. She recognises the Xian empress, dark-haired and light-skinned. She is deep in conversation with the Raskan king. Further off, she spots the current leader of Montesere‘s High Council, who is glowering at Jurian.

He isn‘t the only royal to spot their arrival. Quite a few turn and stare, some snarling, others seeming more curious than angry. Miryam lifts her chin and loops her arm through Jurian‘s. At the end of the room, she spots some of the other Alliance delegates and makes to lead Jurian towards them.

But before they are even halfway across the room, two females step into their pass. Jurian stiffens immediately. It takes Miryam a few seconds longer than him to recognize them. It‘s the red hair that makes the memory stir at the end - something she remarked already during the battle two days ago.

„Look at that“, one of the females drawls. She is the less beautiful one of the two, but somehow more terrifying. Not that it fazes Miryam much - even General Amarantha of Hybern could never even come close to Ravenia. „Two dirty little humans“, the General continues, „thinking they can hold up with their betters.“

Her mouth curles into a smile. Miryam‘s every instinct shouts at her to run at this smile. Or at the very least to lower her head, bow quickly. Make herself invisible. Instead, she squares her shoulder and smiles back.

„And here I was, thinking we were here because you had trouble holding up with us.“

Jurian rasps a laugh. „It certainly looked like it during our battle two days ago.“

Now, that is a blatant lie. They would have gotten their asses kicked if the Hybern soldiers hadn‘t run when that witch`s spell failed. The moment of surprise really did save them. Miryam doubts it will work a second time, though.

Still, the second female. -Clythia, Amarantha‘s younger sister, more beautiful but just as cruel - now watches Jurian with interest. There is an intensity in her gaze that makes Miryam bristle.

„So you are the General who pushed our armies back?“, she asks, „An impressive feat.“ Amarantha scoffs and Clythia pats her arm without tearing her gaze away from Jurian. „You must be a fine General.“

„Now, now. It‘s hardly skill “, Amarantha says, „unless you now count having a way to repel our spells as a feat of the commander.“

Miryam has to remind herself to keep breathing normally. She knows that her secret will be out within a few days, but for the span of this meeting, she`d prefer to keep it.

Clythia steps towards Jurian in a fluid motion. His hand darts for his belt, he, too, had to surrender his weapons. Clythia whispers something to him, to low for Miryam to hear. Then, she lets go and steps back. Amarantha is frowning, she grabs her sister by the arm and whispers furiously to her as she leads her away.

Miryam turns to Jurian. „What did she say to you?“

Jurian presses his lips together, his hands are clenching and unclenching. „That we‘d meet again. She said our lives are intertwined.“

Behind them, a laugh sounds and Helion steps up between them. „That‘s seers to you - always saying things to mess up your lives.“ He claps Jurian on the back. „Don‘t let it get to you.“ He grins at Miryam. „You look absolutely stunning.“

Miryam forces a smile, but still can‘t shake what Clythia told Jurian. She may not know much about seers, but even she knows that only a fool takes their words lightly. She wishes she could talk to Jurian in private, but then, the rest of their delegation is standing around them now and Miryam is busy greeting all of them, discussing strategies and playing confident leader. (What was she thinking, agreeing to lead this delegation?)

Finally, the clock chimes twelve and everyone files into a huge meeting room. Miryam, as leader of the Alliance delegation, takes the seat at the head of the table. The chair opposite her remains empty. Ravenia still isn‘t there. Miryam isn‘t surprised - she accompanied the female to enough meetings to know that she loves to flaunt her power by turning up late. By making everyone wait for her.

A few of the Loyalists look annoyed at having to wait, too, but when Miryam suggests to start the meeting early, none of them agree. They are all too scared of Ravenia to risk angering her by starting without her. So they sit in silence as the minutes tick by. Miryam feels her nerves beginning to fray. Next to her, Jurian is tapping his fingers on the table.

After half an hour, the door opens and Ravenia enters. The queen of the Black Land looks radiant, dressed in a white cloth so light she seems to glow, gold jewellery glinting in the light. Her gaze sweeps over the room with the disinterest of a female who knows that she is on top of the world and everyone is so far beneath her that she can barely see them. She is flanked by two advisors. And, behind her, three human slaves follow. Children, like all of her personal slaves. Miryam tenses. Next to her, Jurian hisses softly.

Ravenia takes her place and her eyes finally find Miryam. Her eyebrows lift ever so slightly, the only sign of her surprise.

„That belongs to me“, she says and jerks her chin towards Miryam.

Murmuring rises aroung the table. Miryam wants to reply something, but words escape her. All she sees is Ravenia at the other side of the table, her slaves standing behind her. She can‘t push the memories back. It`s like it is her standing next to Ravenia instead of these slaves. All that pain and fear and suffering. What was she thinking, coming here like she stood a chance against the female before her?

„She belongs to no one but herself“, Jurian says.

Miryam wants to shoot him a grateful look, but she can‘t tear her eyes away from Ravenia. She feels like if she does, she won‘t be able to hold it together anymore. She will just fall apart into a million broken pieces.

Ravenia smiles at her like she knows exactly what Miryam is going through. „That‘s not true, now, is it, Miryam? You may fool them all into thinking you their equal, but in the end, You‘ll always belong to me.“

Miryam just holds her stare. She prays that people will interpret it as defiance and not understand that she couldn’t speak if she wanted to.

The Xian empress saves her from thinking of something to say. „Could we get on with it, then?”, she asks, “No one cares about your runaway slaves and we are already late.“

There is an edge to her voice. The Loyalists may be allies, but that doesn‘t mean that they wouldn‘t throw each other to the wolves at a moment‘s notice if it benefited them. That‘s an advantage, but Miryam still can‘t find the words to take it.

The meeting is a nightmare. Miryam does her best to stir the conversation, but her words feel stiff and unwieldy. She is way out of her depth among these royals, all of whom don‘t seem inclined at all to go easy on her. On a good day, she might still have been able to stand her ground. But not today, not here. Because standing before these people, she isn‘t the emissary of the entire Alliance anymore - she‘s just a slave girl, alone in a room full of Fae.

The conversation spirals out of control far too quickly. Her allies have begun shooting Miryam questioning looks, but she can‘t do anything against it. They are losing, and losing badly. By now, some of the Alliance members look like they are inclined to agree with what the Loyalists are saying – promises of peace, of new trading deals and prosperity for all. If only the war ended. Utter rubbish, but some of the Fae seem to believe it.

„It isn‘t that we are fighting for slavery“, Ravenia says, „We are fighting for our freedom. Our freedom to choose how to run our countries. None of us wish to force you to start owning slaves, but we want to keep our property and our way of living.“

There are murmurs of agreement. To Miryam‘s horror, some come from Alliance members.

„What you call freedom“, she says, fighting to keep her voice even, „includes the enslavement of thousands of people. Your way of living destroys thousands of lives and what you call property are living, feeling beings.“

But it isn‘t enough. The words lack the punch they would need to draw the audience back on her side. Ravenia smiles and Miryam shrinks back in her seat. Jurian puts a hand on her arm and she only barely manages not to flinch.

That is when one of Ravenia‘s slaves moves. She lifts her head and takes a step forward.

„We are not property“, she says, staring at Ravenia, “You can beat us and chain us up and kill us, but you will never truly own us.”

Then, faster than any of them can react, she draws a knife from under her thin clothes. At first, Miryam thinks that she is going to attack Ravenia. But the girl just looks at Miryam. For a moment, their gazes lock. Then, she turns the knife towards her own chest and plunges it down.

„No!“

Miryam jumps to her feet, but the girl is already collapsing. Without thinking, Miryam rushes around the table and falls to her knees next to the girl. She knows that she is too late, but she still presses her hands on the bleeding wound on the girl‘s chest.

She is only a few years younger than Miryam, with the same curly dark hair and brown skin. Had things gone a bit differently, this could have been her.

„Please“, the girl whispers, her voice barely more than a breath. Miryam doesn`t know what she is begging for and the girl never gets a chance to say it. She doesn`t even get another word out before she dies.

Still, Miryam remains kneeling on the ground. There is blood on her hands, blood on her dress, but she can‘t tear her eyes away from the girl. 

„Could we get on with it, then?“, Ravenia asks.

Like there isn‘t a dead child lying on the floor. Like this girl‘s life was nothing. And suddenly, Miryam isn‘t scared anymore. She is angry.

„You will never win“, she whispers.

„ _What_?“

„I said“, Miryam says and lifts her head, „ _you will never win_.“

Slowly, she stands up and turns around to face Ravenia. For the first time, she meets the queen‘s gaze without fear.

„Because we will never stop. Even if you win this war, even if you kill us all, you won‘t win. Because you create your own downfall.“ Miryam pints a bloody hand towards the dead girl. „You take everything from people until they have nothing left to lose. And as long as there is a single slave left, there will never be peace.“

„You seem to think“, Ravenia says, „that we would hesitate to kill every human in our territories should it become necessary.“

„You can‘t.“ Miryam shakes her head. „Humans are the ones who build your palaces and houses. The ones who grow your food and serve it. For all your power, you are _nothing_ without us. And in the end, that‘s what you will be in the end: Nothing.“

The entire room is silent now.

Miryam says, „You are all doomed. Every territory that owns slaves is walking towards its downfall. Maybe you will win this war, maybe you will survive. But you are still doomed. Even if it takes centuries, in the end, you will lose.“

She turns back to Ravenia and takes a step towards her until she is standing directly in front of her.

„But you“, she says, „you will not survive this war. They say you create your own doom and it will be my pleasure to be yours. _I will destroy you_. When this is all over, there will never be slaves again in the Black Land.“ She dares a glance towards her allies on the other side of the table before she turns back to Ravenia. „And if no one will stand with me, I will do it alone. If it is necessary, I will march into your capital on my own and personally free every single man, woman and child you deem property. I will tear down the palaces you paid for with my people‘s blood with my bare hands and when you stand in the ruins and your land is burning around you, you will remember this moment and the fact that you have no one but yourself to blame.“

For a moment, something like worry flickers in Ravenia‘s dark eyes. But then, she tips her head back and laughs. A few of her allies join in.

„I‘m a queen“, Ravenia says, „and you are _nothing_. Just a human worm. And you think you can destroy me?“ She laughs again. „Go ahead, then. I‘d like to see you try.“

Miryam stares her down. And for the first time, she releases the hold she has on her magic. She doesn‘t let it do anything, just flow through the air. A few people gasp, but Miryam sees nothing but Ravenia.

In a voice she barely recognizes, she says, „I‘d like to see you stop me.“

This time, no one laughs. They just stare. Miryam holds the queen‘s gaze a moment longer. Then, she turns away.

„Unless you free your slaves, there will never be peace“, she says, „As far as I‘m concerned, there is nothing else to say.“ Miryam pulls open the door. “This meeting is over.”

For a heartbeat, she thinks that the others won‘t follow. But then, Jurian rises. The rest of the Alliance members get to their feet as well. As one, they leave the meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than I planned, I`m sorry. I had planned to have this up on friday already, but better late than never I guess.  
> Anyways, I hope you like where this story is going! I always love to hear what you think :)


	16. Chapter 16

## Chapter 16

Miryam wants to disappear. She wishes she could winnow. Or maybe just turn into nothing at all.

She is sitting at the table in the Alliance council`s meeting room, staring at her hands. She tried to wash them, but there are still remains of the girl`s blood all over her. Around her, everyone is yelling. Most of them at her.

Her allies, it seems, are not overly pleased with her. So many of them are yelling that Miryam has trouble making out individual words, but the message is clear enough. What was she thinking, ending the meeting like this, provoking Ravenia. How dare she not have told them that she has a ´personal connection` - Miryam snorts at the word - to Ravenia. And, most of all, they are furious that Miryam is a witch. Or maybe furious that she didn`t tell them about it. Miryam isn`t sure what angers them more. 

She doesn`t bother to defend herself. She doubts she would even be heard over the general screaming.

“This“, the High Lord of the Night Court snaps, “is why I didn‘t want a child to represent us. I said from the very beginning that this would end badly.“

Queen Nakia says, “I think it`s clear that you‘re off the council. A witch!“ She shakes her head and makes a sign against evil. “How could we ever trust someone like you?“

Miryam presses her lips together. She almost waits for the first person to demand they not only kick her off the council, but kill her right away. Indeed, the royal who lost her soldiers to the Black Land‘s army and Artax is looking at her like she`s close to demanding her head.

„Stop it!“, Andromache yells, her voice rising over the general noise. 

Everyone stops speaking - out of sheer surprise, Miryam is sure. The queen turns around to glower at all of them.

“Are you all out of you mind?“, she asks sharply, “What reason do you have to demand her removal of the council?“ She turns to glare at the High Lord of the Night Court. „This war is about freeing the slaves - and you‘re telling her she failed because she said that there would be no peace if they didn‘t? What are you here for if you don‘t care about human lives?“

The High Lord looks inclined to object, but Andromache doesn‘t give him a chance.

„And the rest of you are just as bad!“ She shakes her head. „Do you honestly think that the person who created this Alliance cannot be trusted? That a personal who was a personal slave to Ravenia of the Black Land would betray us?“

A few of the assembled leaders look somewhat ashamed. But there are others who are still glaring.

„But she‘s a witch“, one of the royals snaps.

„So what?“ Andromache curls her hands to a fist like she is contemplating punching him. „Your kind has enslaved and slaughtered us humans for millennia and you dare to give another person shit for what she was born as? You hypocrites!“

For a moment, there is silence. People exchange looks, a few already look guilty. Suddenly, hardly anyone seems to want to look at Miryam anymore.

„Let‘s have a vote, then“, Nakia says.

“Should I wait outside?”, Miryam asks softly. 

She knows she should say something to defend herself, but she doesn`t find the words. Besides, it is not something she can really defend herself against. After all, how is she supposed to argue against something that she _is_?

“Yes”, Nakia says at the same time that Andromache says, “No.” The two queens glower at each other.

“If anyone wants Miryam off the council”, Helion says, “ that person could at least have the courage to say it to her face.” 

That quite efficiently shuts down any further discussion. Just when Nakia is about to call for a vote, the door to the meeting room opens and Jurian enters.

“What did I miss?”, he asks.

“Nothing much”, Helion says drily, “We were just discussing if Miryam should keep her seat on the council.”

“ _What_?” The confusion on Jurian`s face quickly turns to anger. “I`m going to kill-”

“Jur”, Miryam cuts in before he can dig them both an even deeper grave. Death threats (at least open ones) are generally frowned upon in Continental politics.

“Right”, Nakia says, “Those in favour of excluding that _female_ from the council?” She raises her own hand with a very pointed look in Miryam`s direction.

A few others follow. Jurian glares at each of them and Miryam sees two of them hastily lower their hands again. But those who raise their hands are not the majority and by far not enough to actually have Miryam kicked out. Nakia looks like she has a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Well”, Jurian drawls, “That is settled. If you don`t have any other ridiculous demands, we will return to our camp.”

He takes Miryam by the arm and pulls her to her feet. Then, he leads her out of the room.

As soon as they are outside, Jurian asks, “Is everything alright?”

“No.”

Jurian hesitates at that. Obviously, he hadn`t expected her to be honest. It seems like he didn`t really think of a response to a honest answer. (In all fairness, Miryam isn`t exactly known for being open about such things.)

Jurian avoids the rest of the conversation by looking around. “Where are those damned Fae when you need them?” He stalks further along the corridor and catches a Fae guard by the arm. “Can you winnow us back to our camp?”

The guard looks slightly intimidated, but nods. He winnows them back to the camps and vanishes again as soon as their feet touch the ground. They make it only a few steps until the camp's border before Mor comes running towards them, her golden hair waving behind her. Her eyes go straight to the blood on Miryam's dress.

"It isn't mine", Miryam says softly before Mor can ask.

"What happened?", Mor asks, looking between Miryam and Jurian. Likely taking in the tired looks in their eyes. "Did it go alright?"

"Yes", Jurian says, "Miryam scared the shit out of everyone and I think that no one will leave the alliance, so I suppose that counts as alright?"

Mor arches an eyebrow at Miryam. "Typical", she mutters, "something interesting happens and I'm not there."

Miryam doesn't feel like laughing. She doesn`t feel like anything at all, really.

Jurian shoots her a worried look. "Maybe we should go to my tent", he says carefully.

Miryam nods. She does her best to ignore the looks and whispers that follow her on the way to Jurian's tent. All she wants is to be on her own. Inside, however, the Illyrian commander is waiting. Already glaring at her.

There is a bloody knife in his hands. Jurian tenses, but the male just throws it to the ground at Miryam`s feet, hissing words in a language.

“I don`t understand you”, Miryam says. She tries to sound pleasant, but she can`t quite keep the strain out of her voice. 

“He`s dead”, the male says.

“Who?”

“The warrior whose soul you stole, _aje_.”

Even without understanding the last word, Miryam flinches back. “I didn`t...”, she stammers, “I would never... I _helped_ him!”

“You touched him. To be touched by something like _you_ is to lose your soul.” He spits on the ground between them. “He begged me to end his life once he heard what happened.”

Mor understands the implication a second before she does and gasps. Miryam catches on a heartbeat later.

“You... You _killed_ him?” She can`t quite grasp what he is saying. That male... she saved his live. She didn`t...

Miryam takes a step forward. She clenches her hand to a fist. She doesn`t know what she plans to do - punch him, maybe. But the male already flinches back.

“I did _nothing_!”, Miryam hisses. All the pressure of the day comes crashing down and wakes her magic. This time, it doesn`t rise with a whisper, but crashes into her with the force of a full-blown hurricane.

“It takes more than a simple touch to steal his soul, you bastard!”, she shouts, “You killed that male for nothing!”

“Miryam...”, Jurian whispers and reaches out for her. She steps out of his reach.

Around the Illyrian, his magical aura begins to glow brighter. Before he can so much as say a word, Miryam reaches out and clenches down on his power. The Illyrian`s eyes go wide. Then, his three red syphons splinter into a million pieces. The male screams.

Miryam lets go. “Never cross me again”, she hisses. Then, she spins around and stalks out of the tent. 

She can only just hear Mor whisper behind her, “Now I get what you meant.”

Miryam manages to keep up a collected front until she reaches her tent. But as soon as the entrance is safely closed behind her, she can`t keep the tears in anymore. She lets herself fall onto her bed and presses her face into the pillow.

She still hasn`t managed to stop crying by the time the flap of the tent opens.

“You know”, Mor says lightly, “crying into your pillow is perhaps the most nineteen-year-old like I`ve ever seen you act. Almost makes you seem normal.”

It only makes her cry harder.

“Hey, come on. That was a joke.” She can feel the bed move as Mor sits down next to her. Lightly, she puts a hand on her shoulder. “When I was your age and crying”, Mor continues, “Rhys always snuck into my room with booze. But I`m not sure if you`re a drink-your-sorrows-away kind of person, so I also brought cake.”

Carefully, Miryam lifts her head from the pillow. Mor holds a bottle of red wine in one hand, a huge chocolate cake in the other. Miryam sniffs and rubs a hand over her face.

“Cake or wine?”, Mor asks.

“Cake”, Miryam whispers.

Mor grins and passes her a piece of chocolate cake. Then, she takes a swig straight out of the wine bottle. Carefully, Miryam takes a bite of the cake and almost groans in pleasure.

“Oh Cauldron, where did you get this?”

“A city in the Night Court.” Mor grins. “I winnowed there to buy it.”

Miryam smiles, but sobers up almost immediately. “This is very nice, Mor”, she says softly, “But with everything... I don`t know if we should...”

“Hey.” Mor takes her arm lightly. “The world isn`t going to fall into chaos because you take a few hours off for once in your life. Let`s just forget about everything for a bit - pretend there isn`t a war going on, that you aren`t a commander in this.”

Miryam hesitates and Mor gives her a gentle shove. “Come on! Don`t you want to know what it`s like? Just this once?”

“Alright”, Miryam says. The offer, really, is too good to resist. “So, what do you do as a normal person?” She takes another bite of the cake and does her best to forget about everything else.

“Whatever you want, really.” Mor grins. “We could talk about boys. Like this: Have you and Jurian already... you know?”

Miryam feels herself blush. “Not yet.”

They have come close a couple of times, but never actually gone through with it. Jurian hasn`t pushed - he is waiting for her, just like on everything else. And for the past months, Miryam has been trying to gather up the courage to say yes. 

Mor grins. “So you have never...”

“That`s not what I said.” Suddenly, it`s hard to breathe properly.

“Oh”, Mor whispers, “Oh Mother, I`m so sorry. I`m really horrible at this, it...”

“Let`s just drop it”, Miryam says and forces a smile. “Normal night, remember?” To distract herself, she takes a bite of the cake. “Actually, if that`s supposed to work, perhaps you should do the talking. So: Have you ever... you know?”

“Oh _yes_ ”, Mor says and grins. She takes another swig out of her bottle and starts talking.

\---- 

Rhys should have seen it coming. From the moment they found out that Miryam is a witch, he should have known that there is no way he is going to remain in the camp. Illyrians and witches just don't mix well and Rhys doesn't have enough control over his soldiers to get them to behave themselves.

Still, it stings when Jurian calls him to his tent and cordially informs him that he is expected to leave the camp within the span of a day. Rhys supposes he can still count himself lucky - he knows of a few commanders who might have reacted differently. So he takes the news with all the grace he can muster, nods to Jurian and tells his soldiers.

Early in the next morning, a knock sounds at his door. He expects Mor, but instead, Miryam is standing in front of him.

“Lady.” Rhys inclines his head. (He knows Mor loves the female like a sister, but he also heard what happened in the past days. It is enough for him to really, really not want to make an enemy out of her.) “I was going to seek you out anyways. I wanted to apologize for my solders` behaviour.”

“There`s no need. It`s me who should...” Miryam shakes her head. “That soldier who died - I`m sorry about that. And I`m the only reason you`re being sent away.”

“I`d say I`m being sent away because I can`t control my soldiers. So really, I`m the one who`s at fault here.”

“No, I-” Miryam stops herself and grins. “Look at us. Both determined to take the blame on ourselves.”

Rhys bursts out laughing. “Now I understand why Mor likes you so much.”

“The feeling`s mutual”, Miryam says, “But that`s actually not what I wanted to tell you.”

“Well, then, I`m all ears”, Rhys says.

“You`re being sent to assist the army of Sangravah.” Miryam runs a hand through her hair. “The Grand Duke is a friend of mine. I sent him a letter telling him about your arrival. I told him that your soldiers are difficult, but you are a good male.”

“Thank you”, Rhys says. He can`t quite understand why she does it – after all, they don`t really know each other – but he knows what she did for him. “Truly. I`m in your debt.”

Miryam waves him off . “There is something else”, she says, “But you have to swear to keep this between us.”

Rhys frowns at her, but he nods. “Sure. My lips are sealed.”

Still, Miryam looks hesitant. “So, I didn`t know this until a few days ago when Mor told me what it was like in your last camp, but... I made a few inquiries and found out that your father basically gave people leave to do whatever they wanted with you.”

Rhys sighs in relief. For a moment, he thought that the news would be something bad. “Thank you for telling me, but I already knew”, he says, “My father told me that I would be here as a normal commander, not as his heir, before he sent me to the Continent.”

“But that`s different”, Miryam argues, “You see, even the normal commanders are protected because everyone knows that if you treat them too badly, they will complain to their superiors and you`ll be in trouble. No matter the rank of the soldier who gets harmed - there is always someone higher up who can make sure that you`ll be fine. It`s a simple way to keep everyone in line - the only way, really, to make this whole system with the mixed armies work out.” Miryam bites her lip. “But your father made it known that he doesn`t care about what happens to you. Not one bit. So you have no protection whatsoever.”

Rhys takes a deep breath. He hadn`t thought his father would go this far. It shouldn`t sting as much as it does.

“Okay”, he says softly, proud of how unbothered his voice sounds, “So I`m done for.”

“No, I...” Miryam smiles slightly. “I may have made it clear that you are under my protection. That`s what I wanted to tell you. So if there is trouble, you know... who you can turn to.”

Rhys gapes at her. He can`t quite process what she did. It`s stupid, reckless and probably makes her one of the most selfless people he knows. Still, he shakes his head.

“My father will be furious”, he says, “When he finds out - and he will - he will take it out on you.”

“The thing is, though”, Miryam replies, “that I`m not scared of your father. And if he thinks he can take it up with me, he`ll be sorely disappointed.” For a moment, something dangerous glitters in her eyes. But then, it is gone and she is smiling again. “Don`t worry, though. Your father may be angry if he finds out, but he won`t be stupid enough to do anything about it.”

“Well, now I really am in your debt”, Rhys says.

Miryam wrinkles her nose and looks like she`s just about to object when Mor rushes into his tent behind her.

“Rhys!” She jumps into his arms. “I just heard - I can`t believe you`re leaving already!”

“It`s alright”, Rhys whispers to her, “You needn`t worry.”

She shakes her head wildly. “I already tried to talk to Jurian, but he wouldn`t reconsider.”

“Mor.” Rhys lets go of her and takes a step back. “With the way my soldiers acted, I can`t stay here. One male died already. And Jurian was most kind - I know more than a few people who would have reacted differently.”

Which reminds Rhys of the conversation he was just in the middle of when Mor turned up. But Miryam, it seems, used the distraction to vanish. Rhys laughs and shakes his head.

“What?”, Mor asks.

“She`s an extremely dangerous female, that friend of yours.”

“Oh, I know.” Mor grins. “But honestly, after that meeting, everyone does.”

Rhys smiles back at her, but quickly sobers up. “I have to get going”, he says.

Mor wraps her arms around him again. “Be careful. Promise it.”

“I will.”

Mor nods. “I have a patrol to lead in a few minutes. So I`ll have to go now.”

Rhys smiles softly. “Look at that. My little cousin, leading her own patrols.”

Mor swats at his arm. Then, she turns around. Neither of them says goodbye - it would feel far too final for either of their liking. Still, Rhys wonders if he imagines the tears shining in Mor`s eyes as she turns around to look at him one last time.

The effort to get his army ready is enough to distract Rhys from the forced goodbye. Two hours later, they are airborne, heading south. It's a flight of three days to the new camp. He always thought Prythian was huge, but the Continent is a different matter entirely.

On the first evening, when they run into another army camp. Much to Rhys‘ relief, they are flying Alliance colours. Still, Rhys orders his soldiers to land a mile away. After all, anyone can put up an Alliance flag. Besides, few commanders take kindly to having a foreign army of five hundred land in their camp.

So he finds an Alliance flag of his own among their things, leaves his soldiers behind with strict orders not to move and walks towards the camp. It belongs to another aerial army, but their wings are white and feathered. The guards standing around outside are already at attention. It seems they are as unsure about Rhys' intentions as he is about theirs.

"I come in peace!", he calls to the guards.

"Stand down", one of the soldiers orders. The others lower their weapons and the male steps towards Rhys. "It's alright", he says, "we already met Illyrians at the Callian pass. I assume you're Rhysand."

"Rhys", he corrects automatically. "How do you know me?"

"Oh, you're kind of the reason we're here. We were actually supposed to be the ones to work together with Sangravah, but the orders changed." He smiles at Rhys and holds out a hand. "I'm Prince Drakon of Erithia. Nice to meet you."

Rhys takes the offered hand and tries to bow at the same time. After all, the male before him is on the Alliance council and rules over a territory about twice as big as the Night Court. In situations like this, it's generally better to be polite.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, Your Highness", Rhys says.

"It's no issue. If you want to, you and our soldiers are welcome to join our camp."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

Prince Drakon nods. "I'm not sure if you‘re aware", he says, "but in our army, females fight aloneside males. Our general is female. So in their own interest, your soldiers should show them respect."

"Of course, Your Highness." He wonders if he imagines the Prince rolling his eyes.

In the next few hours, Rhys does his best to get his soldiers settled into the camp without causing any fights. All while being watched by the sharp-eyed Seraphim general, who seems to be waiting for him to mess up. By the time everyone is settled, Rhys is done with the day.

He is just about to vanish into his newly-erected tent when gets a message from Prince Drakon, inviting him to dinner. Rhys sighs. There`s about a million things he`d rather do, but there is no polite way to turn down the invitation.

He finds the Prince in a tent in the camp`s centre. Dinner is already set out on a table that, from its look, is usually used for strategy meetings. Rhys thanks Drakon for the invitation and sits down.

They manage fifteen minutes of meaningless small-talk, before Prince Drakon forcefully sets down his fork. “Alright. I give up”, he says, “I have no idea what you`re playing at. And at this point, the entire Cauldron-damned Continent knows that I`m bad at politics, so I don`t know what you`re trying to do, but it`s not very _nice_.”

For a moment, Rhys just stares at him. Then, he bursts out laughing. The utterly wrong reaction, from the way Drakon looks at him. Offended, but mostly hurt.

It is enough to make Rhys sober up. “I`m sorry”, he says, “I shouldn`t have laughed, it`s just...” He shakes his head. “I`m from Prythian, you see. We don`t do that whole Continental politics business and I never learned it. So, whatever you think I was implying wasn`t my intention.”

Prince Drakon seems to contemplate his words for a few seconds before he shakes his head and laughs. “Well, now it`s me who ought to apologize”, he says, “It seems I don`t even need someone well-versed in Continental politics to make a fool of myself. I`m sorry. I`m a little sensitive about these things.”

Rhys can`t say she blames him for it. In the past months, he heard more than enough cruel jokes and rumours about the Prince to understand why he would be easily annoyed at these things.

“How about we just set politics aside for the evening?”, he suggests, “I mean, it`s not like we`re that far apart by way of age, so it`s a bit ridiculous anyways.”

Drakon raises an eyebrow. “Really? How old are you, then?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Not far apart? Are you kidding?” Prince Drakon grins. “You`re _ancient_!”

“Funny”, Rhys says, but he can`t help a grin. And just like that, the tension is gone. “So, you were at the Callian pass, correct? Where are you going now?”

“I`m supposed to take over the camp from a commander named Pelior. Apparently, he didn`t really do well with running his camp.”

“That`s an understatement”, Rhys mutters. He makes a mental note to send Miryam a thank you note as soon as he arrives in his new camp. 

“And you`re coming from Jurian`s camp?”, the Prince asks, leaning forward in his chair, “There are lots of interesting stories going around about him and Lady Miryam. I´d love to meet them both some time.”

“Oh, they are certainly fascinating people.” Rhys laughs softly. “Miryam especially, from what I have seen.”

“Is it true that she`s a witch? I only heard rumours.”

“In this case, they are true.” Rhys reaches for the wine and refills first Drakon`s glass, then his own. They clink their glasses together.

\----

Three days after the meeting, things have calmed down a little for everyone. Most of the soldiers, it seems, have gotten over their initial mistrust and now see the advantages of having a witch in their midst. Which, in turn, means that Jurian has to spend significantly less time dealing out punishments.

Jurian is sitting in his tent and dealing with his least favourite part of his job: Paperwork. Most of it ends up on Miryam`s desk, but some of his things, Jurian has to deal with himself.

Groaning, he shifts through his paperwork. On top of the stack is a letter he doesn`t recognize. Frowning, Jurian rips it open and scans the content, his eyebrows rising further with each word.

_My dearest General,_

_Ever since the meeting, I haven`t been able to think of anyone but you. You`re all I see, both waking and sleeping. I told you that our futures are intertwined and each of my visions has only reaffirmed that._

_If you feel only a hint of the connection I know is between us, then I am begging you to give me a sign._

_With love,_

_Clythia_

Jurian blinks a few times. Then, he goes looking for Miryam. He finds her sitting around a table, talking to a few soldiers. When she sees the look on his face, she frowns up at him.

“Would you come for a walk?”, Jurian asks.

“Yes, of course.” Smiling, Miryam excuses herself and walks away from the group with Jurian. “What`s wrong?”, she asks as soon as they are out of hearing range.

Wordlessly, Jurian hands her the letter. Miryam´s face remains calm as she reads it. Finally, she looks up, but still doesn`t say anything. For a moment, they just stare at each other.

It is Miryam who breaks the silence in the end. “Say it, then. But don`t force me to.”

Jurian takes a deep breath. “It could be an invaluable opportunity”, he says, “If I play it correctly, I could gain an inside source in Hybern`s army.” 

He watches Miryam carefully. But still, there is no sign of what she`s thinking. She can be so damn hard to read sometimes.

“And are you asking me this”, Miryam asks, “as your lover, or as a member of the Alliance council?”

“Both.”

“As a member of the Alliance council, I agree with you. The information could be invaluable.” Miryam wraps her arms around herself, the only sign of her distress. “As your lover...” She shakes her head. “But I think you know me well enough to know which comes first. So if this is what you want...” She doesn`t finish the sentence.

Everything in Jurian screams at him to not do this. To throw that damned letter into the fire and never, ever think of it again. If only to make sure Miryam never looks at him like that again. But same as her, he knows what comes first.

“Then I`ll write her back”, he says. The words taste bitter.

“No, I...” Miryam winces and manages a smile. “Fae courtship is... I`ll have the letter ready by tomorrow.”

“Miryam.” Jurian reaches out for her and gently takes her by the arm. “Please. Please, I love you. This”, he waves at the letter, “this changes nothing.”

“I know, Jur”, she says softly, “It`s alright. If you can do this, then I can, too.” She gently takes his hand. “We`ll be fine. We`re stronger than this.”

Jurian nods. He is just about to reply when the alarm starts ringing.

Miryam and Jurian both dart around, jumping into action with practiced ease. Before they so much as make it to the camp`s centre, Tia comes running towards them.

“What`s going on?”, Jurian asks.

“There`s an army. About one hour away.”

Miryam frowns. “One hour? How did we spot it this soon?”

“Well, it`s a pretty big army.” Tia winces. “And they aren`t trying really hard to hide their approach. I think they want us to know.”

“How many?”, Jurian asks.

“Five thousand. At least.”

Jurian curses. He exchanges a quick glance with Miryam, who is biting her lip.

“I can send out letters”, she says, “But no other camp is close enough. Besides...” She frowns at Tia. “You said they aren`t trying to hide their approach. What if it`s a trap.”

“No, they...” This time, Tia seems uncharacteristically lost for words. “I think they want to send a message.”

Jurian doesn`t have patience for talking around a problem on a good day. And if there`s an army of five thousand soldiers marching towards them, it`s double true.

“Spit it out”, he snaps.

But Tia just looks at Miryam. “They`re from the Black Land”, she says softly, “I think...”

She doesn`t need to finish the sentence. It is clear enough without it.

Miryam challenged Ravenia during the meeting. And the Queen of the Black Land sent five thousand soldiers to deal with the threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a small cliffhanger. Sorry. But guess what`s finally going to happen in the next chapter!  
> As always, I`d love to hear what you think! Your comments always make me really happy :)


	17. Chapter 17

## Chapter 17

Miryam should have seen it coming. After all, she knows Ravenia – she has seen the female slaughter entire families over minor insults. Sending an army to punish Miryam for her defiance is just the Queen`s style.

She takes a deep breath and turns to Mor. "I want you to winnow to the closest camps, see if you find anyone close enough to send help. Without support, we can last..."

"Two hours", Jurian finishes for her, "Three at most before the losses become catastrophic."

Mor nods sharply. "I'll do what I can. And try to be back before the battle starts." Without another word, she vanishes.

"I'll put up wards",Miryam says. It's the only complicated spell she is somewhat positive she can manage without getting herself killed. "Maybe it will buy us time."

"Do it, then." Jurian hesitates for a heartbeat. Then, he pullsher close and kisses her gently. "I love you."

It feels far too much like a goodbye. And if Jurian is saying goodbye, that means they likely won`t make it. But Miryam can`t accept that – she can`t.

"And I love you", Miryam says, "But we won't die today."

Jurian smiles slightly. "As my lady commands." He gives her a mocking bow and rushes off.

Miryam makes the most of the hour they have left. While Jurian rallies their army, she sets up a circle. This one is the most powerful she has ever created, the symbols lining the edges drawn in her own blood. Around the camp, she sets up markers to show the ends of the wards. She tries not to tell herself that every life in this camp may depend on her ability to set up functioning wards.

Back in her circle, she flips open the book and starts talking. The spell is long, spanning almost three pages in the book. It is by far the most complicated one Miryam has ever tried. Still, she does not allow herself to be scared. Fear, she learned, is the fastest way to lose control. She doesn't want to find out what will happen if her power slips her leash in the middle of a spell like this.

By now, at least, she knows enough to understand what the individual parts of the spell do. First, activating the circle and anchoring her to the ground. Then, drawing power from the surroundings to her. Calling up on the strings. And finally, carefully, weaving them together to form a line of protection. She is just finishing the final words, tying up the ends neatly, when the second alarm starts ringing, loud and panicked. Hastily, Miryam finishes the spell and runs out of her tent.

Jurian choose not to have their army meet the enemy on the field, but instead defend their camp as long as possible. It means that should the Fae break through, they will have nowhere to retreat, but in open battle, they would be annihilated within less than an hour.

Everywhere in the camp, soldiers are running around. Miryam pushes through the chaos until she reaches the middle of the camp, where the healers have set up their camp.

"Everything ready?", she asks.

The other healers nod. Miryam looks up at the sky and sees Kiel circling above. she raises her arm and the falcon comes shooting down to land on her arm.

"Good, thank you", Miryam says, "I'll take a quick look at the battle, please tell me when the first wounded arrive."

She slips into Kiel's body easily. Half a thought has the falcon taking off and soaring towards the camp's border. She makes sure to keep him high in the sky and well away from any stray arrows that might hit him. (She feels bad enough about using his body already, even though the falcon doesn't seem to mind. Still, the last thing she wants is for him to get hurt.)

The Black Land's army is huge. More than five thousand, by Miryam's quick count. Far more. There is no sign of Ravenia, Artax or one of the Black Land`s other witches, but it`s a brief relief. The army approaching will kill them just as quickly.

The soldiers take its time to draw closer. They don't immediately attack, but surround the camp in neat, organised lines. Their own soldiers are already in their defence positions, holed up behind walls, spikes and other protections.

Miryam watches as the enemies set up catapults. Strange. Fae usually don't use siege weapons like catapults - why would they, when magic is so much more efficient? They haven't even shot the first volley of arrows yet, or attacked the shields with their magic. Miryam considers having Kiel fly closer to take a look, but decides against it.

The Fae load the catapults with something. Something round. Stones? The soldiers fire, the projectiles bounce off harmlessly on the wards. Now, they are close enough for Miryam to see what it is they are shooting. Not stones, as she first thought.

_Heads_.

Hundreds of them. Close to a thousand. And through Kiel's sharp eyes, Miryam sees exactly who they belonged to.

Miryam snaps back into her own body. She stumbles a step to the side and presses her hand to her mouth. One of the other healers reaches out for her.

"What happened?", the woman asks.

"She killed them", Miryam whispers. She curls her hands to a fist to keep from shaking.

"What? Who?"

Miryam just shakes her head. This is her fault. She shouldn't have taunted Ravenia, shouldn't have thought that the Queen would let her get away with it. That she would let the insult of her former slave challenging her, of a half-breed like Miryam having a power that her people consider sacred, slide. Ravenia might not have been able to reach her - but there were thousands of others already at her mercy.

And from the way it looks, Ravenia chose to get back at Miryam through her people. By having the other half-Fae slaves killed. All of them, by the looks of it.

A thousand of the people she swore to free, dead. Because of her.

Miryam focuses on her breathing. She can't break down, not in the middle of the camp where everyone can see. Most certainly not in the middle of a battle. So she straightens.

"I'll check on the supplies", she says, "Please excuse me."

She finds a bag with healing supplies and carefully begins to sort through it. Her hands move seemingly on their own, she barely notices what she's doing. She is almost glad when the first wounded arrive and she can focus entirely on her work.

\----

Mor has spent the last hour winnowing from one camp to another. Trying to get the camp commanders to grant her an audience. Then, always hearing the same answer: They are too far away, their soldiers will not get there in time. They can try, but it will be no use.

So Mor keeps going. With each passing minute, her unrest grows. Have the Black Land soldiers already reached the camp? Has the fighting started already? She wants nothing more than to winnow back to their camp and help her friends, but her task is a different one. Much as she may hate it, she cannot return without hope for the others. She needs to find them an army.

When she reaches the Sangravahn camp, she knows it is no use. This camp is two days away from their army, any help she might find will only arrive in time to bury the corpses. But by now, Rhys should be here and maybe he will know what to do. He might have an idea.

She doesn't bother going to the camp commander. Instead, she goes straight to the Illyrian camp. The guards let her through without question, although they do shoot her annoyed looks. Rhys is just in the middle of dealing out a punishment - Mor flinches at the sound of snapping bones - but he stops and turns to her when she approaches. One look at her face has him frowning at her.

"What's wrong?"

Hastily, Mor summarizes the situation.

Rhys curses softly. "We're too far away. Even if I were able to winnow them all for a part of the way..." He shakes his head. "We would still be too late."

"But there has to be something we can do!", Mor says, "I can't return to the camp without anything to show for."

Rhys frowns. "Have you tried Prince Drakon's army yet? We met them a day ago, they were traveling north. They might be close enough."

"Where?", Mor asks. She has to fight the urge to winnow right away.

Rhys describes the place where they met as well as he can, then adds, "They were headed for Pelior's camp."

"Oh, that bastard", Mor hisses. Pelior's camp was one of the first she visited and the commander did not think to mention to her that they had an army incoming. If they survive this, she is going to have his head. "Thank you."

Rhys nods, face grave. "Be careful."

Mor gives him a brief smile and winnows.

Searching for an army without knowing where exactly to look turns out to be far harder than Mor thought. She winnows into thin air, looks around and vanishes again within the span of a heartbeat. This way, she can cover more terrain than she normally could, but it's also exhausting. Even for someone with Mor's considerable magic abilities, it's not something she can keep up forever. And there is no sign of any soldiers.

Just when she is about to turn back to the camp and ask for assistance, she winnows into the middle of an army. She has to winnow again almost immediately or risk falling into thin air. The soldiers notice her and whisper amongst each other, frowning at the strange girl falling through the air. Someone gives the signal to land. Relieved, Mor winnows to the ground.

A male and a female land in front of her, both of them brown-skinned and dark-haired with startling white wings. Prince Drakon and the General leading his army, Mor assumes. She bows, doing her best to remember the Continental customs Miryam has been trying to teach her. Prince Drakon returns the gesture. (Mor is halfway sure he is doing it wrong, but that's likely just her mixing things up).

"Can we help you?", he asks.

Mor runs a hand through her hair, trying to straighten it. "I come from Jurian's camp", she says, "they are under attack. You are the only army that's close enough to help, you need to come."

Prince Drakon watches her for a heartbeat, then turns around, looking ready to give the fitting order. His general grabs him by the arm, stopping him.

"I assume", she says, "that you have the appropriate papers to back your claim."

Mor has to keep from cursing. She starts fishing around in her pockets and finally produces a letter. She holds it out to Prince Drakon, the general reads over his shoulder.

"The seal is broken", she point out.

"Of course it is!", Mo hisses, her temper slipping her leash, "because I already had to show it to a dozen different commanders! Now if you'd just come help us before all my friends end up dead, it would be really great!"

The general turns to Prince Drakon. "I hope you realize that this could easily be a trap."

"Yes. But if it isn't, we'll be responsible for thousands of our allies dying", he says, "We fly immediately."

Mor sags with relief. "Thank you. I'll pass the message on." She inclines her head to Prince Drakon and winnows.

\----

Half an hour into the fight, the wards are still holding, but holes are beginning to appear. Some soldiers have been injured by stray arrows or Fae who managed to break through. Jurian doesn`t even want to know what will happen once the wards break. He doubts they will last long.

For the moment, though, their biggest problem is troop moral, which is not looking good. Having heads shot at you, it turns out, is even worse for morale than being surrounded by an army hell-bent on killing all of you. Jurian has been running around the camp for the past hour, trying to calm his soldiers - sometimes with reassuring words, sometimes by snapping at them to get their shit together. At least Miryam seems to be holding it together.

Jurian is just about to return to his post when Mor comes running towards him. She comes to a skidding halt in front of him.

"I got reinforcements", she says, "We'll only have to hold out for another hour."

"An hour." Jurian nods. Somehow, he doubts that the wards will hold out this long. He can just pray that they will manage.

"Good job", he tells Mor, "Now, go help out at the western side of the camp. I'll be east."

The wards don't collapse all at once. Instead, they slowly give in. Holes appear and grow bigger by the second. Their enemies' fire magic shoots through. Once the holes are big enough, the soldiers give up their attempts to shatter the wards and instead advance through the holes.

Jurian calls out an order to his soldiers and runs for the nearest hole.

\----

Even though Drakon had his army fly as fast as possible without having them be too exhausted to fight, they almost arrive too late. By the time they reach the camp, the wards are already failing. From his vantage point in the air, Drakon can see tents burning like pyres and human soldiers trying desperately to hold the lines. They break out into cheers as they notice the approaching army.

Drakon orders his army to split up into two groups. He takes charge of the left flank while Sinna flies right. Below, the Bkack Land soldiers are already rallying against the threat. Arrows start flying, one buries itself deep into Drakons's shield. Fire magic follows, shooting through the air towards them.

The battle turns chaotic almost immediately. Drakon only barely manages to dodge a bust of flame, the heat singes his arm. Through the smoak in the air, it soon becomes hard to make out anything.

It`s at least as bad as the battle at the Callian pass. This one lacks the horror of being his first battle, but it makes up for it by being infinitely more chaotic. Drakon`s soldiers are at the disadvantage against the Black Land soldiers, who only have to hold their ground and kill as many as possible.

Drakon flaps his wings a few times and quickly soars higher to get an overview of the battle. On the far left, his soldiers are floundering and he shouts an order to have the lines reinforced. Then, he shoots back down into the fray.

Ever so slowly, the tide of the battle begins to turn. The Black Land soldiers retreat, but they make them pay in blood for every inch of ground.

A wave of fire rushes towards Drakon, his shields shudder under the onslaught. He banks aside, loses his shield in doing so. He frantically flaps his wings, trying to fly higher, but a burning pain shoots through his leg, making him sway in the air. When Drakon looks down, he finds an arrow lodged in his tight. Then, there is another burst of pain, this time in his back. Drakon roars in pain.

He tries to steady himself in the air, but his body won't obey. Everything hurts. Then, he is falling.

\----

They win the battle. At least that's what Jurian says when he talks to the soldiers afterwards. Miryam has a hard time calling any battle that ended with roughly a thousand of their soldiers dead a victory. Saying that they "didn't lose" would be more fitting.

The losses are catastrophic. Even worse are the amounts of wounded soldiers. To the usual varying kinds of stab wounds and blunt force trauma comes a sheer unending amount of burns of varying severity. The entire camp, it seems, has been turned into a wasteland of burned tents and screaming wounded.

There are far too few healers to tent to the wounded. Since the Fae had to rush here as fast as possible, they left all non-fighters, including their healers, behind. Meaning that they now have to stretch out the human camp's healers to also tend to the Fae. Miryam has to snap and order at her healers to get them to distribute evenly, instead of only helping their own soldiers and leaving the Fae to die. In the end, she decides to head out onto the battlefield herself.

If Miryam thought the camp was bad, it is nothing compared to what waits beyond the wards. Some of the wounded, she notices, are enemy soldiers. There are already some of Jurian's soldiers walking around, dealing with them. On another day, she might have argued, but the image of the severed heads is still fresh in her mind. Still, Miryam looks away as one of their soldiers angles his sword over a wounded Black Land Fae. She may hate these people, but that doesn't mean that watching them die brings her any joy.

The first three of their allies Miryam finds are already dead. The fourth is only lightly injured and Miryam hastily instructs him on how to bandage his own wounds and hurries on in search of one of the worse cases. The fifth soldier she finds doesn't have wings anymore. His entire back is an unrecognizable mass of burnt flesh.

Hastily, Miryam kneels down next to him. She has to fight to keep a curse in as she assesses the damage. The bleeding isn't too bad, but there is little Miryam can do to fix burns this bad. She carefully cleans the wounds, glad that the soldier is unconscious and doesn't have to endure the pain. Then, she apples a soothing salve and wraps bandages around the male's back. She finds a soldier that can still stand and orders him to carefully bring the male back to the camp.

Miryam is just about to hurry on when she hears someone calling for a healer. She shoulders her bag and runs towards the voice. She finds a female in a dirty armour kneeling on the ground next to a male. When she sees Miryam, she jumps to her feet.

"You're a healer?"

Miryam nods. She kneels down next to the male - and nearly drops her bag when she recognizes him.

"What's wrong?", the female asks. There is something like panic hidden behind the sharpness in her voice. "Do something!"

Miryam doesn`t answer. How is she supposed to explain that this is the male who freed her from slavery almost three years ago? She certainly couldn't put what she is feeling into words. But she certainly will not let him die, so she carefully begins to examine his wounds.

"What happened?", she asks, if only to give the female something to do other than stare at her with a mixture of panic and mistrust.

"He was hit by an arrow and fell out of the sky." She shakes her head. "I was too far away to do anything.”

Miryam nods. She can see the tip of the arrow poking out of his back. She prays that it didn't hit anything vital.

"Will he make it?" This time, the female doesn't even try to conceal her worry.

Under normal circumstances, Miryam would not answer a question like that at this point - nothing is worse than giving someone hope only to rip it away. But this time, she nods.

"Yes, he will."

Miryam applies a salve to numb the pain before she draws her knife and begins cutting out the arrow. Still, Prince Drakon thrashes in her grip almost as soon as she begins. Miryam curses.

“Help me hold him”, she tells the female who is still sitting next to her.

She proceeds carefully. The arrow is pretty damn close to lots of vital organs and the last thing Miryam wants to do is hit any of them accidentally. To make matters worse, it`s made of ash, so she has to be absolutely sure that no splinters remain in the wound.

Miryam is almost done when Prince Drakon jerks awake. He stares at her wildly, eyes unfocused.

“You…”, he whispers, breathing hard. “You can`t be here.” Then, he slumps again.

“I´m sorry”, the female says, wincing slightly, “He`s confusing you for-“

“No”, Miryam says. She turns back to her work. “No, he isn`t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I`m so sorry for the delay with the update! I`ve been buy, and also kind of unmotivated, but I promise the next chapter will be up faster :)


	18. Chapter 18

## Chapter 18

It hurts. For a few seconds, it takes all of Drakon's self-control not to scream in pain. He tries to calm his breathing, but each breath sends needles of pain shooting through his body.

Carefully, he opens his eyes. He is lying on his back on a hard bed, looking up at the ceiling of a tent. He blinks a few times, trying to clear the fog in his mind. The battle is a mess of blood and fire in his mind. But if he is still alive, they must have won. Right?

Then, another memory resurfaces. A female with light-brown skin and curly, dark hair looking down at him – her face so very familiar. But no, he must have dreamed her. There is no way she could have been here.

Slowly, he turns his head to the side. At the first glance, the tent appears empty save for a mess of books, herbs and clothes lying strewn around. Only when he turns around a bit further does he notice the girl who is sitting curled up in a corner of the tent. Her clothes are still splattered in mud and blood and her hair is falling in her face. She looks like she didn't mean to fall asleep, just sit down for a second.

Drakon wasn't about to wake her, but, like she felt his gaze, her head jerks up and she stares at him. He stares back.

She has grown older in the last years, turned from a stick-thin girl he met in Ravenia`s palace into a grown female. And there is a new confidence in the way she holds herself. Still, there is no mistaking who she is. (Not with her face permanently burned into his mind.)

"You..." He doesn't know how to finish the sentence. She can't be here, he must be dreaming.

She grins at him and courtesies. "A pleasure to meet you again, your Highness."

"You are..." Drakon shakes his head ever so slightly, trying to clear it. "I have been searching for you. For the entire three years, I have been searching."

She frowns ever so slightly. "I didn't think you'd even remember me."

"How could I ever forget you?", he asks. Then, he notices what it sounds like and immediately wishes he could disappear into his pillow. Trust him to make the situation even weirder than it already is.

"Well, I'll assume those are the painkillers talking", the female says.

"In that case, I wish they'd do their job instead of talking", Drakon mutters.

She laughs. She's beautiful - how hadn't he noticed before?

"No more painkillers, I'm afraid", she says, "We are running low on those and have to save the rest in case we need to amputate someone - not you, don't look so worried. But I could offer you some water." She must be one of the camp healers, Drakon realizes.

"Yes, please", he says, "Do you have any news of the battle?"

"We didn`t lose", the female says, but the way she looks as she says it implies that the victory came at a steep price. She takes a glass of water from a table and helps him drink, which is somewhat humiliating.

"How many?", Drakon asks quietly.

"Eight hundred. Five hundred of ours, three hundred of yours. We haven't counted the wounded yet, though."

Drakon curses softly. He tries to sit up and hisses with pain.

"Oh no, you don't", the female says and rushes over, "I did not spend an hour trying to stitch you up only for you to ruin it all by being an idiot." She glares at him and unceremoniously pulls up his shirt to inspect the stitches. "What is it with you soldiers and being unable to listen to your bodies? Or, you know, the healers?"

Drakon laughs, then immediately stops because it hurts. "Sorry." He gives her a sheepish smile. "And thank you for... you know, keeping me from dying. Looks like I'm in your debt twice over."

" _You_ are in _my_ debt?" She arches an eyebrow at him. "You saved my life, gave me my freedom. If anything, I'm in your debt."

"Your freedom should never have been mine to give, anyways. What I did was basic decency, you needn't feel indebted to me for it. And you kept me from marrying Ravenia, so it's me who owes you."

"No, I..." She cuts herself off and laughs. "This is a stupid thing to argue about."

Drakon smiles. "Indeed it is."

#"Well then, your Highness-"

"Oh please, don't call me that." He holds out his hand to her. "I'm Drakon."

"Miryam."

It's the answer to a question he hadn't known he'd been asking. And then, something else clicks. "Miryam as in one of this camp's commanders?", he says carefully.

"Maybe?"

"You've got to be kidding me!"

He can't quite wrap his mind around the fact that the female his emissary talks about in such glowing colours, the female he heard soldiers whisper about, is the same slave girl who saved him from the biggest mistake of his life. It just seems too unlikely.

"How?", Drakon asks.

But the female - Miryam - is already looking towards the camp's entrance. A shadow passes over her face.

"I can't stay", she says, "I'm sorry, but there is a lot to do. I shouldn't have fallen asleep, that was..." She shakes her head. "Do you need anything else?"

What he wants is for her to stay, but he can't say that. It isn't for him to ask anything of her. So instead, he says, “Could you maybe send for Sinna or another one of my soldiers?”

Miryam nods, but watches him closely. "You aren't going to do anything stupid the moment I leave this tent, are you?"

"What do you expect me to do? I can't even sit up on my own."

"You'd be surprised", she says, "I once treated a soldier who thought it was a good idea to try and get up even though his insides were hanging out. Needless to say, it did not end well."

Drakon has learned his lesson that laughing is not a good idea, so he just smiles. "Don't worry. That's not my kind of stupid."

“Alright”, Miryam says, “I'll be back in a few hours to check in on you."

Then, she vanishes out of the tent. No more than five minutes pass before the entrance of the tent opens again. This time, it is not Miryam who enters, but a human man, light-skinned and brown-haired. He scans the tent before focusing on Drakon. He gives him a lopsided grin.

"Always a pleasure to find a strange male in my lover's bed."

Drakon winces slightly. It hadn't occured to him whose beg he was lying in. In spite of his assurance to Miryam, it does make him consider trying to get up.

"Given my state", he says, trying to sound light, "I think I can believably assure you that nothing happened."

The man - Jurian, he assumes - smirks. "Given your species and knowing Miryam, I'd believe you even if you weren't injured." He seems to consider and adds, "No offence."

"None taken." After what Drakon has seen in the Black Land, it is a small miracle that Miryam can so much as look at any Fae, much less him.

Jurian makes to turn around, then stops. "Thank you for helping us out there", he says, "Without you, we'd all be dead."

"You're welcome." Drakon feels awkward, accepting thanks for something he deems the bare minimum. He grins at Jurian. "I couldn't well let a commander as brilliant as you die. I heard about how you destroyed Montesere's fleet. Beyond impressive."

"Likewise. Taking the Callian pass - brilliant." Suddenly, Jurian looks a whole lot more friendly. "I'd love to talk more, but I was actually looking for Miryam."

"She left a few minutes before you arrived."

"Well, then", Jurian says, turning back to the tent's entrance. "Oh, and if you want some advice: Do as she says. I can tell you from personal experience that she doesn't like it at all when you do things like trying to get up."

Drakon has to bite back a laugh. Somehow, he has the feeling that the soldier Miryam was talking about earlier was in fact the camp's Commander.

“Wouldn`t cross my mind”, he says.

“Well, then. I`ll see you around”, Jurian says and rushes out of the tent again.

\----

In the Black Land, it is customary for the dead to be burned. For dead Fae, they put up a huge pyre where the dead are barred up with some of their priced possessions (including, occasionally, still-living slaves). The burning of the pyre is a big celebration. Dead slaves usually just get burned on the spot by whoever can be bothered.

Here in the north, though, the dead tend to be buried instead of burned. Dry wood is rare, fire magic even rarer, so the dead get put into the cold earth. Miryam has always hated the idea. Being trapped in the cold earth, dirt pushing in from every side. Trapped for eternity.

And somehow, she cannot stand the thought of having the humans Ravenia killed put into the earth. These people who spent their entire lives in chains should at least be free in death.

Some of Jurian's soldiers collected the heads. Someone counted. More than one thousand heads. More than one thousand dead people - people who might still be alive if not for Miryam.

She collects the wood from a nearby forest herself. It takes her hours, but she finds enough for a pyre, refuses every offer of help. She only allows one of the Seraphim to use his wind magic to dry the wood. Then, she lights the fire and watches the makeshift-pyre go up in flames.

Jurian finds her before the pyre is entirely burnt down. Miryam is standing there, staring at the flames, when he steps up behind her. Carefully, he wraps his arms around her.

"It's not your fault", he whispers into her hair.

Miryam hasn't cried - not during the battle and not during the long hours afterwards. But now, she does. Jurian pulls her close and doesn't let go.

"I was supposed to save them", she whispers.

"You will." Jurian runs a hand through her hair. "You will."

When Miryam finally stops crying, the pyre is long burned down. Nothing but ashes is left, and those are already being blown away by the wind. She gives Jurian a small smile.

"Thank you."

He carefully lets go of her. She can see the restlessness in his stance. He is itching to get back to his soldiers, but likely doesn't want to leave her alone.

"Go", she says, "I'll be fine."

Jurian hesitates for a moment longer, then presses a last kiss on her temple and rushes off. Miryam checks in on the wounded who are being treated in the middle of the camp, but no help is needed there. The ones who were about to die are already dead, the rest is likely going to make it. So she returns to her tent.

She almost forgot that Drakon is there. He is still lying in her bed, a Seraphim female is sitting on a chair next to him. She is small, one of her wings somewhat malformed. When Miryam enters, they both turn to look at her. She stops by the entrance.

The Seraphim female smiles at her. "I'm Nephelle."

Miryam manages to return the smile. "Miryam. Nice to meet you."

Nephelle exchanges a look with Drakon, then gets up. "Well, I'll be going."

"You needn't-", Miryam begins, but Nephelle has already pushed past her and out of the tent.

Miryam sits down on the now vacant chair. She tries not to stare at Drakon. Tries not to look too uncomfortable. Her tent is her sanctuary and having an almost-stranger - a Fae no less – in here makes her uncomfortable. It means she can't let down her guard.

"How are you", she asks to cover her unease.

She doesn't want Drakon to notice. No matter what he says, she owes him her life. And she doesn't mind his presence as much as she would mind any other male. Having him here, in a way, feels right. Her problem doesn't even have to do with him personally, just the general situation.

"It hurts slightly less", Drakon says. He's watching her carefully. "Look, I'm not the healer here, but I really don't feel so bad. You don't have to have me stay in your tent, really."

Damnit. So much for not looking uncomfortable.

"We're short of beds", she says, "I'm not hurt, you are. It'd be stupid for me to have a proper bed while you don't." When Drakon still doesn't look convinced, she adds, "I really don't mind." Which is, of course, a lie.

"Come on", Drakon says gently, "This is already slightly awkward for me. I don't want to imagine what it must be like for you."

Miryam crosses her arms. "Calling people out on their obvious lies is generally considered impolite."

"Sorry", Drakon says, "But then, lying isn't really polite either, so there's that."

In spite of herself, Miryam smiles. "Well, that point goes to you."

"But seriously: I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Miryam sighs and, for once, chooses honesty. "It's not you who makes me uncomfortable, it's the situation. And if I'd send you away, I'd feel even worse."

Drakon sighs. "Well, who am I to argue with my healer?"

"Very true."

For a while, they sit in silence. Miryam fiddles around with her clothes. She is covered in dried blood, dirt and ashes. Meaning that she really, really needs to change and maybe wash a little, but there's no way in hell that she is going to undress in front of Drakon. (Even though he did already see her in close to nothing. But well, once is one time too often, no need to make it twice.) She is just about to vanish off to Jurian's tent to change, but then she remembers that it burned down during the attack.

She sighs. "I'll go to sleep if you don't mind."

Drakon nods. He watches her search for a blanket and curl up in the corner with an expression that implies he feels terrible about himself. Miryam considers telling him that she slept on the ground for most of her life, but somehow, she doubts that it would make him feel better. So she just curls up into a tight ball and closes her eyes.

Miryam dreams she is back in the Black Land, back in Ravenia`s palace. She is watching as the queen orders the part-Fae slaves brought before her. The first one, a boy a few years younger than Miryam, is forced to his knees. She tries to scream, but she can`t. She can`t move, can`t do anything as a Fae male in a dark mask draws a great sword.

Miryam jerks awake, breathing hard. She looks around wildly in the dark tent. A light flares to life and Miryam nearly screams.

"Sorry", Drakon says hastily, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. But you were thrashing around."

Miryam blushes. Great. Just great. Now she looks like an idiot in front of a foreign Fae royal. Just what she needed today.

"I had a nightmare", she says in an attempt to regain at least some dignity, "Thank you for waking me."

"Sure."

Another awkward silence follows.

Finally, Drakon says, "I heard what she did." There is no need to clarify who he is talking about. "I'm sorry."

Miryam stares down at her knees. "It was my fault." She doesn't know why she says it, she certainly didn't mean to.

"No, it wasn't", Drakon says softly, "It was Ravenia who had them killed. Not you."

Miryam wraps her arms around herself. "I taunted her, though. Even though I know what she's like, I taunted her. I may not have killed them myself, but without me, they might still be alive."

Drakon sits up a little straighter in the bed and winces slightly. Miryam has to bite her lips to keep from telling him to lie back down and that he's going to tear his stitches.

"Don't do this", he says, "Don't try to take the blame on yourself. There is always a possibility that things would have gone differently. Maybe those slaves would still be alive, or maybe Ravenia would have had them killed for another reason. And maybe..." His breath catches, he shakes his head. "The thing is, the blame is all on Ravenia. You are _never_ to blame for the actions of a monster who is trying to ruin your life."

Miryam takes a deep, shuddering breath. She tries to blink her tears away.

"Thank you", she says softly, "that was..."

Drakon's smile turns sad. "It's what I tell myself every day”, he says.

“I`m sorry about your family”, Miryam says.

“So am I.”

Silence falls again. Miryam lies back down on her blanket and stares up at the ceiling.

“After you let me escape”, she says, “I swore to one day return and free my people. And every day since then, I have been trying…” She sighs. “You`ve been to the Black Land. You`ve seen their armies, you know Ravenia. Do you think I even stand a chance?”

Drakon is silent for a moment. Miryam continues staring up at the ceiling, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“I heard the stories about you, you know?”, Drakon finally says, “I heard that you created this Alliance, managed to get humans and Fae to fight side by side. And I heard that you challenged Ravenia during that meeting – something that probably no other Alliance member would have dared.”

Miryam blushes. She is about to tell him that he is exaggerating her importance. She was not the only one working towards the Alliance and her taunting Ravenia was more stupid than brave. But before she gets the chance, Drakon continues.

“I don`t claim to know how this war will end, Miryam. But I do no that if there`s anyone who stands a chance to go up against Ravenia and win, it`s you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No cliffhanger for this chapter😉 I'm going on holidays tomorrow and that means I probably won't update for a few weeks (due to lack of time and internet access), so I wanted to end this chapter on a nice note.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I`m back from holidays! And I managed to get a bit written while I was away, so the next chapters should be coming more quickly.

## Chapter 19

It has been more than a week since the battle. The camp is mostly rebuild, the only sign of the destruction are scorch marks on some tents and a few soldiers who are still limping. The Seraphim army has set up camp right next to the human one and so far, both sides seem to be getting along fairly well.

Jurian has praised the Seraphim army thrice already to Miryam – his not-so-subtle attempts, she is sure, to get her to let them keep their new allies around. After all, he has always been fascinated with aerial legions and the prospect of having one that actually lets itself be commanded has him beyond excited. In the end, the Alliance council beat Miryam to it in making the decision. Apparently, they went right over her head and decided it would be best to keep half of the Seraphim legion with Jurian`s camp as reinforcements, while sending the rest of them to take over Pelior`s camp.

Miryam finds the Prince outside with his soldiers, overseeing a training sequence and chatting with a few of them.

“I hope you`re just watching”, Miryam says lightly and nods towards the training ring, “And not thinking of participating.”

His wound has been healing nicely, but that doesn`t mean he should be running around wielding swords again this soon. However, soldiers have a tendency to be remarkably idiotic when it concerns their health.

“Wouldn`t dream of it”, Drakon replies, “After all that trouble you went through to pierce me back together.”

Miryam smiles slightly, then takes out the letter. “We have something to discuss. Camp commander stuff. Would you walk a few steps with me?”

“Sure.”

Drakon holds out his arm to her. The gesture is so… _princely_ and completely unfitting for this camp or her that Miryam has to bite back a laugh. Drakon seems to quickly think the better of it for whatever reason. He pulls his arm back and instead runs his hand through his hair in an entirely futile attempt at appearing casual.

Miryam does him a favour and pretends not to notice. “I assume you got a letter as well”, she says.

Drakon nods. “I`ve been meaning to talk to Jurian and you about it today. I`ve thought about putting Sinna in charge of the soldiers who will remain here, but since it`s your camp, I thought I`d discuss it with you in advance.”

“So you aren`t staying.” Miryam feels a pang of disappointment she can`t quite explain.

“I don`t think it would be wise.”

“Why not?”

Drakon is suddenly very interested in his weapons belt. “I know my presence here puts you in a… difficult situation.”

Miryam blinks. “Excuse me?”

Drakon sighs and turns around to look at her. “No matter how much I may want to, there is no getting around the fact that I´ve been engaged to that… _monster_. I _agreed_ to marry her.” He shakes his head. “I don`t know how you can even bear to look at me after everything she has done to you. You`ve been very kind, but it`s not a situation I wish to put you in.” He gives her a small smile. “Leaving is the only decent thing I can do, really.”

Miryam stops walking to stare at him. It`s very considerate, she supposes. But what is she supposed to reply?

“Why did you do it?”, she finally asks, “Agree to marry her, I mean. I never understood.”

Nothing she has seen of Drakon so far explains why he`d get engaged to _Queen Ravenia_ of all people. He seems kind, with much regard for all lives. Not at all ambitious and most certainly not the type to value power more than his morals.

Drakon runs a hand through his hair, his wings tremble slightly. “I wasn`t really… needed as a prince”, he says, “It was clear pretty early on that I was horrible at Continental politics and I had two older sisters who were far more suited to the position than I was. But since I was good with the theoretical side – laws, societies, such things - my father considered giving me a seat on his council once I was done serving in the military for a few years.” He sighs. “Only then, Ravenia offered him an alliance. One that included a marriage. And my father… he wasn`t a bad male, but he was ambitious. The offer was too good to refuse.”

“He made you agree?”, Miryam asks softly.

“No”, Drakon says, “I sometimes wish I could claim that, but he didn`t force me. He told me about the offer and I obviously didn`t like it, but I felt it was my duty to my people to agree. Besides…” He trails off and refuses to looks at Miryam.

“Besides?”, she prompts gently.

“I thought…” Drakon begins fiddling around with his belt again. “Cauldron, I feel stupid saying this. But I thought she couldn`t be so bad.”

Miryam can`t help it, she snorts.

“I know, I know”, Drakon says, “But I just couldn`t imagine it! I had spent most of my life studying at university or at the palace, I never even visited a country that allows slavery. But I had studied it and I had all these arguments about how slavery was horrible. I thought that if I just talked to her about it, she would have to see the error in what she was doing. It was so reasonable, I thought anyone would have to see it.” He shakes his head. “I couldn´t imagine a person just being… _bad_. I was so horribly stupid.”

Miryam hesitates. She has a hard time imagining the life he describes. Living to adulthood without having seen so much death and suffering that you can`t even count it anymore. Being able to look at people and believe that they are all good by default, because you have never met anyone who was truly bad. A life without fear, without scars. Absentmindedly, she rubs the brand on her arm.

Drakon is looking at her, now. With a start, she realizes that he expects some kind of response from her. That somehow, he deems it her place to judge his actions.

“You are right”, she says carefully, “It was stupid. But one stupid choice does not define you, especially when you made it without ill intent.” Now, it is her who looks away as she continues, “And I know that you`re a good person. You were the first Fae to ever treat me like a person, not a… _thing_. You helped me escape without a second thought, even though it made breaking off the engagement into a bigger insult. You allied yourself with the humans even though you didn`t have to. All this weighs far heavier than that engagement.”

“I…”, Drakon begins hoarsely, but he trails off, looking over Miryam`s shoulder.

She turns around to find Jurian walking towards them. It takes Miryam exactly one look at him to see that something is wrong.

Jurian nods at Drakon before turning to Miryam. “Can I talk you you?”, he says.

Drakon looks between them. “I´ll get going, then”, he says and gives Miryam a tight smile. “Thank you for… everything.”

“You`re welcome.” Miryam smiles back. “I truly wouldn`t mind you staying.” To her surprise, she finds it is actually the truth.

Jurian frowns after Drakon as he walks off. “What is it between the two of you?”

“What do you mean?”

“There are… rumours.”

“Please tell me this isn`t what you came to talk to me about”, Miryam says. When Jurian doesn`t reply, she rolls her eyes. “The answer is no, I didn`t sleep with him, if that`s what you were wondering about. I`m surprised you even have to ask.”

Jurian eyes his boots. “Well, I didn`t think you`d sleep with him _willingly_. But… well…”

Miryam goes still. “It wasn`t him”, she manages to say, “I wouldn`t be talking to him if it was.”

“I`m sorry”, Jurian says, “I shouldn`t have brought it up.”

“No, it`s alright”, Miryam says, even though she is shaking slightly, “But really, it was nothing like that. He never even touched me.”

“That`s good to hear”, Jurian says, “He seems like a nice enough male. I would have hated having to kill him.”

Miryam laughs, even though Jurian`s expression says he isn`t joking. She stops, though, when Jurian takes a letter out of his pocket. He looks at it like it`s burning his fingers.

“Clythia replied”, he says, “She wants to meet me in three days.”

Miryam`s breath catches in her throat. “Oh”, is all the reply she can manage.

For a while, they just stand around awkwardly, not really looking at each other. Miryam doesn`t know what to do with her hands, her body. _Don`t go_ , she thinks, but she doesn`t say it. _Whatever it takes_ , she repeats to herself. This is bigger than her, bigger than either of them.

“That`s… great”, she manages.

“Yes”, Jurian replies bitterly, “really great.”

\----

Mor has chosen her most scandalous dress. It is bright red and only barely covers the intimate areas of her body. When she steps out of the tent, she is pleased to have several soldiers stop dead in their tracks to stare at her. Head held high, Mor struts through the camp, aware of every person who stares after her.

It is a good kind of attention – the one she chooses for herself.

Jurian barely gives her more than a brief glance when she stops in front of him. She supposes she could turn up naked in front of him and he wouldn`t care, simply because she isn`t Miryam.

“You`re leaving?”, he asks.

Mor nods. “I think I`ll be back by evening, but I`m not sure. It depends on what my uncle wants this time.”

“Well, kick the bastard`s ass for me, will you?”

Mor huffs a laugh, but the comment doesn`t quite manage to ease her tension. The problem isn`t meeting the High Lord – that, she has done plenty – but the fact that he asked her to come meet him in the Hewn City. She isn`t even sure if the High Lord chose the meeting place to unnerve her. Far more likely that he simply doesn`t understand what this place means for her.

She manages a small smile towards Jurian, then she starts walking towards the edge of the camp, where the wards end. She is almost there when she hears a voice calling after her.

“Mor! Wait!”

She turns around to find Miryam running after her. Panting, the female stops.

“Can you drop me off at Telique?”, she asks, naming the capital of the human kingdom and the place where most Alliance meetings are being held.

“Sure”, Mor says. It`s on the way, after all. “You got a meeting?”

Miryam is wearing a dress (long and modest, covering her entire body – the opposite of the dress Mor choose) and she only does that when she has to go to an official meeting.

She shakes her head. “I`m being sent to another diplomatic trip.”

Side by side, they continue walking towards the edge of the camp. A diplomatic meeting is not unusual, but somehow, this one feels off. The decision must have made at a short notice, too, if Mor doesn`t know yet. After all, she spent most of the night in Miryam`s tent, while the other female tried to reassure her that her visit to the Hewn City would be fine.

“Where to?”, Mor asks.

Miryam hesitates for half a heartbeat. “The Autumn Court”, she says.

“What?!” Mor stops dead. “No. They can`t send you there.”

“I can handle myself.”

But Mor is barely listening. “They have to send someone else. Not you.”

“It is very nice of you to worry, Mor”, Miryam says softly, “But I`ll be there to represent half the Continent. And I`ll be a guest. There are rules, they wouldn`t dare to touch me. It isn`t the same.”

She doesn`t specify what she is talking about – Mor told her months ago about what happened to her.

“Tell me you won`t be alone”, Mor says softly, “Please, at least tell me that someone will be with you.”

Miryam sighs through her nose. “Thank you for the vote of confidence”, she mutters, “But yes, Helion will be with me.”

Mor has to keep her relief from showing. She doesn`t want Miryam to think she doesn`t trust her abilities. But sending Miryam – half-human, beautiful, female Miryam – to the Autumn Court is like sending a doe to negotiate with a bunch of wolves.

Before Mor can say anything else, they reach the edge of the camp. Hesitantly, she takes Miryam by the arm and winnows them both to the human capital.

“Thank you”, Miryam says as they reappear, “And good luck with your meeting.” She gives her hand a squeeze, then steps away.

Mor is confused for a split second – over her worry about Miryam`s new mission, she almost forgot her own issues. But now, she remembers.

“Be careful”, she whispers – and winnows before she loses her courage.

She reappears just outside the mountain under which the Hewn City is built. The guards waiting outside have the nerve to stop her, but one cold look from Mor – one she learned from Jurian – has them stepping aside. Mor takes a deep breath and enters the mountain.

Lucky for her, it is still day and most of the members of her father`s court are still asleep. Still, some are up and staring at her. Mor imagines their whispers. _Whore. Disgrace._ She walks past the corridor that leads down to the chambers where her father brought her after he found out about Cassian. Where they spiked the nails through her.

The High Lord is waiting in his study. He smiles at Mor when she enters. Sometimes, she forgets that he actually does like her – maybe because his actions so rarely reflect it.

“Sit down, Morrigan”, he says and motions to a chair, “How are you? Well?”

“Yes, My Lord.” Lie, lie, lie. Sometimes, it feels like her entire life is one giant lie, only waiting to come crashing down around her.

He nods distractedly. “And your work?”

“I like it.” She forces a smile. “I have the opportunity to meet many interesting people.”

The High Lord shoots her a look. “And you`re good at it, too. I have to say, I`m surprised. You know I only appointed you because that… _girl_ demanded it. Yet, your results are satisfying.”

“Thank you.”

“There`s just one thing”, the High Lord says softly, “Why aren`t you staying in Telique?”

“I`m not needed there most days”, Mor says carefully.

A look of annoyance passes over her uncle`s face. “That does not explain why you are staying in Commander Jurian`s camp.”

Mor hesitates. She does not think her uncle would approve of her fighting in battles – or of her friendship to both of the camp`s leaders. “I like it there.”

“Well”, the High Lord drawls, “You are my emissary to both the humans and the entire Alliance.” His voice becomes sharp as a knife as he continues, “And that… arrogant, half-breed _bitch_ is not the head of the Alliance, no matter how she may act.”

Mor has to bite her tongue to keep from saying something to defend her friend. She curls her hands to fists, but disagreeing would only make it worse.

The High Lord jumps to his feet and starts pacing. “What I`d like to know”, he hisses, “is how that female keeps rising in power. Even when she messes up – completely blows the most important meeting of the decade – it somehow turns into a victory for her. The whole Cauldron-damned council follows her lead without so much as a question.”

Mor doesn`t know what to say.

“But not me”, the High Lord hisses, “And not you, either. So you won`t be staying in her camp anymore. You`ll move to Telique right away.”

It is all Mor can do not to gasp. He might as well have punched her. That camp is her home, these people are her friends – and he`s just going to make her leave. But with the way the High Lord is acting, it`s pretty likely that he will kick her out as emissary if she objects.

So she forces herself to nod. “As you wish, My Lord.”

\----

Jurian is stalling – he knows it pretty damn well. He was supposed to leave the camp roughly fifteen minutes ago, but he keeps finding excuses not to. Talk to one of his captains, organise the patrols, give advice to some newbies in the sparring ring. All to push back the moment of departure a bit further.

_It will be fine,_ he tells himself for the millionths time, _It`s just a stupid meeting with one female. I`ve faced worse._

Still, the thought of what he`s about to do makes his stomach roll. He tries to push away the image of Clythia during the meeting, touching his arm. Whispering into his ear. The idea of allowing her to touch him (and do more than that) is almost too much to bear.

He clenches his hands to fists. For his people, for their freedom, he can do this.

He finds Prince Drakon far more quickly than he would have liked. The male is standing with his general, overseeing half of his army packing up. When Jurian walks up to them, Drakon looks up and smiles at him.

“Already heard the news?”, he asks, “Looks like we`re going to be around for a while longer.

“Yep”, Jurian says, trying not to smile.

After his experiences with the Illyrians, he was pleasantly surprised by the Seraphim army. They don`t start fights, they don`t insult his soldiers. Add to that that they fight pretty damn well and Jurian is very much for having them remain at his camp. He had already worked out a strategy to get Miryam to do it, but it seems the Alliance council got the idea without him having to beg. All the better.

“Well”, Jurian drawls, “since you`ll be staying here for the while being, you might as well make yourself useful.”

General Sinna arches an eyebrow at him. “Need us to save your asses again?”

Jurian rolls his eyes. At first, he was offended by her brisk style, but ever since he found out that she treats everyone (with the exception of her lover, perhaps) that way, it stopped bothering him.

“I have to leave the camp for a few hours”, he tells Drakon, “Can you take over command for the time being?”

“Sure. Where are you going?”

“On a patrol”, Jurian lies.

He takes his favourite horse – a midnight-black stallion who runs as fast as the wind – from the stables and mounts the saddle. The guards at the camp`s borders salute as he rides past, Jurian nods in return. Then, he snaps with his reins and the horse breaks into a sprint.

He passes two patrols on his way, but soon, he is out of the guarded area. Still, Jurian keeps riding.

The place he told Clythia to meet him is almost an hour away from the camp. It`s not exactly practical (quite the opposite, actually), but the last thing Jurian needs is for one of his soldiers to run into him while he is having a private meeting with one of Hybern`s crueller generals. That is a scandal he`d rather avoid.

Finally, he nears the small waterfall Clythia is waiting by and flicks his reins to get the horse to stop. He dismounts and carefully approaches, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Clythia is sitting on a small rock, already waiting for him. She looks like she picked the position in advance so that her slender body is illuminated before the splashing water. Like him, she is wearing a light armour and weapons, but her deep red hair is untied and flowing over her back in a cascade.

She looks beautiful.

It is all Jurian can do not to spin around and run – or draw his sword.

Instead, he gives her a lazy smile. “Good evening, beautiful lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! As always, I´d be really happy to hear what you think, your comments always make me so happy.


	20. Chapter 20

## Chapter 20

The Autumn Court is beautiful, but its beauty is a strange one. The forest is full of colours, so vivid that Miryam barely knows where to look, yet the entire land seems laced with a scent of decay.

Absentmindedly, Miryam tugs at the sleeves of her dress, wishing she had brought something warmer. The Autumn Court is not cold by any means, but Miryam was born in a desert country. Next to her, Helion waves a hand and she is immediately warm.

“You okay?”, he whispers. Miryam nods, but he still gives her a questioning glance. “You seem worried.”

_Well, what can I say? My lover is just meeting with one of Hybern`s deadliest generals and trying to seduce her. So yes, I may be slightly worried._

Before she can think of an excuse, though, the guards pull open the huge doors to High Lord Beron`s Forest House and she is able to step inside, Helion half a step behind her.

The wealth that greets her inside would be enough to make most people stop and gawk. Golden chandeliers, silk carpets on the walls, doors made of pure gold. Miryam only gives her surroundings half a glance before she continues walking. She does her best to ignore the guards trailing them, staring at her. All of them are High Fae, there is not a single faerie in sight. Mor`s warnings are ringing in her ears and make her senses go on high alert.

The walk to the throne room seems endless. Helion links his arm through hers and leans in to whisper into her ear, “A joyful place, right?”

Miryam smiles and nods. “Have you been here before?”, she asks.

“Once or twice.” Helion is grinning, but there is a tension in his face. Strange. Miryam doesn`t know of any tension between him and the Autumn Court, but she isn`t stupid enough to ask here, where the guards are sure to report their words back to Beron.

Finally, they reach the throne room. Two guards open the door for them and Miryam walks in, head held high.

High Lord Beron is sitting on a throne made of antlers at the end of the long throne room. His red hair looks like living flame, the red aura of his magic is glowing brightly around him. There is a cruel cast to his mouth, though, that has Miryam become even more cautious.

Miryam steps forward and inclines her head. “My Lord. Thank you for inviting us.”

Beron doesn`t reply. He just watches her. Sneers. Miryam holds his gaze.

“Look at that”, he finally drawls, “Is the Alliance running short of proper politicians, or is there another reason they are sending a child to represent them?”

“My Lord, I am-“, Miryam begins, but he cuts her off with a wave.

“I know who you are, girl. Don`t take me for stupid.”

She bristles. “If you know my name, then perhaps you should use it.”

“Careful”, Beron hisses, “I am a High Lord – I do not allow half-breed filth to talk down to me.”

Helion takes a step forward, but Miryam holds out a hand to stop him. She says, “And I am the emissary to the human-faerie Alliance. You`ll find that I do not take kindly to being insulted, either.”

Beron studies her for a few seconds. “A witch alright”, he says with a smile that sends a shiver running down Miryam`s spine. “We shall discuss business later. But first, allow me to show you the pleasures my court has to offer.”

He claps his hand and a band starts playing. Courtiers begin milling around. Beron turns to one of them without sparing Miryam another glance.

Helion laughs and links his arm through Miryam`s to lead her away. “Could have been worse. Do you want me to stay with you, or-“

“Go enjoy yourself”, Miryam says. She remembers Mor`s warning, but she doesn`t want to look weak in front of these people and hiding behind her Fae companion will certainly be seen as a sign of weakness.

Helion winks at her and vanishes amongst the assembled Fae. Miryam spends the next few minutes in tense conversations with courtiers who either look at her like she is a piece of dirt staining their pretty palace, or a particularly pleasant meal. Typical High Fae arrogance.

Finally, Miryam has had enough and pushes her way through the crowd to a quiet corner. From there, she has a good overview of the throne room. She spots Helion almost immediately. He is talking to a pretty Autumn Court female with red hair. Or rather flirting with her. He keeps casually touching her arm and smiling with enough heat to make the female blush. Only after a moment does Miryam recognize her as the Lady of Autumn. Indeed, Beron is watching the pair as well, his lips pressed together into a thin line. What in the Mother`s name is Helion thinking?

Miryam is about to go over and do her best to prevent a disaster when she gets the weird feeling of being watched. She looks around the room until her gaze settles on a young Autumn Court male whose aura marks him as the Heir of Autumn. Eris. When he notices Miryam`s attention, he smiles slightly and dips his chin. She frowns in return and he begins making his way through the crowd towards her.

Once he is standing in front of her, he bows to the waist. “May I have this dance, my Lady?”

“I`m sorry, but I do not dance.” _At least not with you, you pig._ It is a struggle to keep the disgust out of her voice. She tries not to think of Mor, or the part this male played in her suffering.

Eris smiles. “Make an exception. You won`t regret it.”

“The lady said she doesn`t dance.” Suddenly, Helion is standing next to her again. “You heard her.”

Eris smirks. “A pity”, he says and stalks off.

Miryam turns to Helion. “Thank you”, she says, “But I-“

“You could have handled yourself. I know.” He grins. “I would have expected nothing else of Miryam Godsblessed.”

“Oh, don`t call me that.” Bad enough that the soldiers keep whispering that name behind her back. Miryam sighs. “Well, I`m still glad you`re here.” She nudges him in the side. “How is flirting with our host`s wife in front of his entire court helping this diplomatic meeting?”

Helion gives her one of his dazzling smiles. “Oh, it is absolutely vital.”

Miryam arches an eyebrow. She doesn`t buy that swaggering bullshit for one second. Something is bothering Helion, she can tell. But before she can find a subtle way to ask, Lord Beron`s voice rings out over the crowd.

“Helion!”

They both turn to face the throne. The High Lord is holding out a letter.

“Your uncle is asking for your presence in Day. There appears to be an emergency.”

Helion frowns. He barely skims the letter Beron hands him, then turns to Miryam. “He says it`s important.”

“Go. Just don`t forget to pick me up later – if I get stuck in Prythian because of you, I`ll be pissed.”

“Thank you”, Helion says and rushes out of the room.

Miryam returns to her corner. It doesn`t take long, though, for trouble to find her. Eris Vanserra stops in front of her, an expectant expression on his face.

“What is it?”, Miryam asks.

“You still owe me a dance”, the male says, smirking.

“I told you: I don`t dance.”

“I don`t believe you. Why won`t you dance with me?”

Miryam hesitates, then says, “I`m friends with Morrigan.”

She wonders if she imagines Eris flinching. A second later, his arrogance is back. “A pity”, he drawls, “I thought you had class.” Miryam bristles, but he just laughs. “Come on, now, I`m your host`s son. Refusing to dance with me might be considered a slight.”

The worst part is, he is right. There`s no polite way for her to refuse. So Miryam grits her teeth, takes the hand he offers her and lets him lead her to the dance floor.

She almost immediately regrets it. Being this close to Eris, having him tough her, makes her skin prickle. His hands are on her waist, pulling her closer. Miryam`s first instinct is to push him away, but she can`t do that – it would be a political nightmare.

“Not so bad, is it?”, Eris drawls.

Then, he leans in closer until she can feel his breath on her neck. Miryam doesn`t think she`s breathing. She wonders how her feet are still moving when she is all but frozen with fear. Too close, too close, too close.

“Now, you listen to me”, Eris whispers into her ear, his voice so soft she can barely understand him, “And if you want to survive this night, I`d suggest you do exactly as I say. This is a trap.”

\----

Jurian awkwardly sits down on a rock next to Clythia, but he makes sure that there is still lots of empty space between them. This female is a general in Hybern`s army. She slaughtered countless humans – his people – without mercy. If his spy`s reports are anything to go by, her sister and her delight in torturing humans before ending them. Yet, he is sitting next to her like nothing is wrong. His every instinct is roaring at him to draw his sword and just kill her.

“I know you`re hesitant”, Clythia says, breaking the silence.

“Not so much hesitant as confused.” And repulsed. “I got the impression that you don`t hold humans in the highest regard.”

Clythia waves a hand as if dismissing the comment. “You`re different. Not at all like the other mortals. They are worms, but you…”

It doesn`t seem to occur to her at all that Jurian might mind her insulting his people. That he might not want to be considered an exception or spend so much as a second in the presence of a female who considers his kind to be less than animals.

“What about me?”, he asks, hoping that his tone doesn`t show his anger.

“You belong with me.” At least she doesn`t say _belong to me_ , but Jurian isn`t sure if she sees a difference. “I`ve seen it – seen it long before I ever heard your name. We will be together.”

She says it with such certainty that Jurian shivers slightly. If she`s a seer and she`s seen them being together… No, she has to be wrong. Or maybe she`s lying. This can`t be his future.

He pulls himself together. He`s a soldier, for Cauldron`s sake. This is just another mission. He shouldn`t let it get to him.

“Well”, he says, “what an interesting future. You may have heard, though, that I am in a relationship. Happily.”

Again, that dismissive hand wave. “Inconsequential.” Clythia smiles. “I`ve been a seer for three centuries now and believe me: The future does not lie.”

Jurian briefly considers her words. She is sure of herself. Obviously believes that she has won already. Jurian knows opponents like that. They are usually arrogant and don`t look past the first impression. Easy enough to trick. Even better, she doesn`t seem to consider that Jurian might be seriously opposed to the idea of this relationship.

As if to prove him right, Clythia puts her hand on his leg.

Jurian makes himself give her his best lazy smile. “Why don`t you show me what that future`s going to be like, then?”

\----

“That`s not possible”, Miryam whispers. She keeps dancing, keeps her face neutral, even as her mind begins to race. “I`m a guest in his house – he wouldn`t dare harm me.” Not even Ravenia, for all her cruelty, ever broke that rule.

“Continental rules”, Eris replies, “They don`t hold as much sway here. And he doesn`t need to harm you himself – he can just stand by as others do.”

“Why?”

She can feel Eris sigh. “Is that really the pressing thing to discuss? We only have minutes!”

But Miryam still hesitates. She doesn`t trust Eris. He might well be lying and if she acts on his words only to find out that he was tricking her, it will be her who jeopardizes this alliance. If she acts and turns out to be wrong, it will be the biggest mistake she ever made as an emissary – it might cost her any standing she has within the Alliance.

“Why?”, she repeats.

Eris groans. He twirls her around, then pulls her close again. “The Loyalists offer quite generous terms – far better than anything the Alliance could give us. Your head is the asking price. I assume you know why.”

“What`s the plan?” Miryam has to keep from glancing around in the room to look for anything that seems out of place.

“That letter to Helion was forged – they wanted to get him out of the way. A group of soldiers will arrive to take you away in… five minutes.”

Miryam curses. If he`s saying the truth, she is really and truly in trouble. “What do I do?”, she breathes.

“On my note”, Eris says, “you will shove me away. Make a scene. Then, you storm out of the room. You need to go down two flights of stairs. There is a carpet with a huge deer on it. Behind it, you find a hidden room. Wait for me there.”

Miryam nods. They keep twirling around each other. Then, Eris pulls her close again.

“Now”, he whispers.

Miryam doesn`t hesitate. She shoves him away from her as hard as she can – which, given that he`s Fae and she`s not, barely makes him stumble. Around them, people stop dancing to stare at them. Miryam darts forward and slaps Eris. (She can`t quite contain a feeling of satisfaction at the surprise on his face.)

“You bastard”, she hisses, “How dare you touch me?”

She turns around to glower at the Fae who are snickering around them, then turns to Beron who is watching her from his throne.

“I need some fresh air”, she snaps.

Without waiting for a reply, she stalks out of the room. The guards at the doors do not stop her.

Instead of trying to go to the meeting place, Miryam lingers by the door. She paces like she is simply a female annoyed at some male`s behaviour during the party, but keeps shooting glances through the doors. She can`t leave – not without being absolutely sure that this is indeed a trap. It might be reckless, but anything else would be political suicide.

She doesn`t have to wait for long. Only a few minutes pass before a group of people appear in the middle of the throne room. All of them are armed and bearing the Black Land colours. Miryam stumbles back a step as she recognizes the male at the front.

Artax.

For a second, Miryam is frozen with old fear. Then, her instincts kick in. She spins around and runs. Thank the Cauldron, none of the guards reach out to stop her. Miryam dashes down the stairs. She already took the first flight when she realizes that she is going to lead Artax straight to the meeting place and if Eris isn`t waiting, she will be done for.

So instead, she turns to the right on the first landing and sprints down the corridor. She hears steps following behind her, almost lazily. She has nowhere to run and they know it. Artax probably enjoys the chase. She needs to buy herself some time, but how is she supposed to do that against the head of the Witcher`s Guild?

Miryam dashes around the next corner. The guards follow her with their eyes, but don`t move. Apparently, Beron`s twisted view of guest`s right means that his guards won`t touch her.

The next corridor is empty. Then, out of nowhere, a female steps into her way. She is dressed in servants` colours and marked as a faerie by the antlers poking out of her brown hair. It is too late for Miryam to jump aside – she crashes straight into the female. They both go crashing to the ground.

“Sorry”, Miryam gasps.

She pushes back to her feet, but then, she pauses. The female had to have come from somewhere. Indeed, there is a small door in the wall, almost invisible. The servant`s corridors, of course – those existed in the Black Land as well. Steps are approaching from behind. Miryam pushes the door open and slips through. She pulls it shut behind her the moment Artax rounds the corner.

The corridors much smaller and darker than the huge hallways of the palace. Miryam keeps running. At each crossroad, she takes a different turn. Soon, she is completely lost, but she can still hear steps following her. She looks back over her shoulder to see if Artax is already in sight, and –

Suddenly, the ground is gone from under her feet. Miryam barely has time to yelp before she is falling.

She lands in something soft. Clothes, Miryam realizes. She is lying in a pile of clothes. High above her, there is a hole in the ceiling – likely used by servants to dump the laundry into. Miryam quickly rolls to the side and presses herself against the wall.

It doesn`t take long for Artax` face to appear in the hole. Miryam doesn`t dare breath as he looks down onto the pile of clothes. After what seems like an eternity, he continues on the corridor. Miryam sags with relief.

Even though she got rid of her pursuers, it takes Miryam almost an hour to get to her meeting place with Eris. The Forest House is a maze and Miryam has to avoid anyone who might see her. She has just begun to believe that she`ll never find the hidden room when she rounds a corner and comes face to face with the carpet.

She pushes past it and into the room beyond. The carpet falls back into its place and a flame flickers to life – right in front of her face. It illuminates Eris`, who pushes off the wall he was leaning against.

“Finally”, he hisses, “I thought you had been caught.”

Miryam is shaking, but manages to glare at him. “Just take me out of here, please.”

“Not so fast”, Eris says and takes a step back. “First, I`d like to discuss my conditions.”

“Your what?”

“Well, I´m risking quite a lot by saving you. It would only be fair if you were to repay me.”

Miryam glances towards the door. She is sure Artax is still searching for her, and if he finds her here… “What do you want?”

“A favour”, he replies, “to be decided later.”

“No.” How stupid does he think she is? “You could ask anything. I won`t do it.”

“It will be within reason. And I don`t see how you have much of a choice. You can stay here, of course, but you`ll find that you`ll have a hard time winning this war if you`re dead.”

Miryam hesitates. Damn that male, he is right. “Nothing that harms the war effort”, she says.

“Alright.”

“And I won`t sleep with you.”

Eris snorts. “I honestly don`t know where you get the idea that I´d have an interest.” He holds out a hand. “Do we have a deal?”

There are steps approaching outside. It might just be guards – or it could be Artax.

“Yes”, she says and takes his hand. As soon as their fingers touch, he winnows them away.

They land in a forest that looks as old as this land. Miryam is shivering in her too-light dress. She doesn`t know where she thought Eris would take her, but she certainly didn`t expect this.

“Where are we?”

“The Middle. I´ll send word to Helion that he can pick you up here.”

Miryam nods. Something about this forest seems off, but she tries to tell herself that it can`t be so bad. She survived the trek through half the Continent on her own – she should be able to last a few hours here.

“Why?”, she asks, “Why save me?”

Eris gives her that insufferable smirk of his. “Your death would have been a waste. Alive, you may yet be useful.”

“Of course”, Miryam mutters, “How could I believe you`d ever help my for any reason other than your own gain.”

Any amusement vanishes from Eris` face. “I had my reasons. Back then, I mean.”

“You left a girl of seventeen in the forest to die. You truly believe any _reasons_ you might have had make it fine?” Miryam hesitates for a heartbeat, then adds, “I thank you for your help, though.”

Eris gives her a mocking bow, then vanishes, leaving her alone in the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought quite a lot about how to portray Eris. On one hand, it is made pretty clear that he is not as horrible as he seems. But I also really didn`t want to dismiss Mor`s suffering or excuse his actions, so I choose a middle ground (I mean, I don`t like him, so I wrote him as a kind of self-serving asshole, but still not as bad as his father.). I hope that worked out!  
> I also feel like I should probably tell you that I don`t write sex scenes. I don`t like reading them and I certainly don`t feel comfortable writing them, so all sex scenes in this book will be fade-to-black.


	21. Chapter 21

## Chapter 21

“So you`ll be staying here”, Andromache says.

Mor and her are sitting on a small balcony in Telique`s palace. The queen had dinner brought over, but Mor is just shoving the food around on her plate. After the visit to the Hewn City, her stomach still feels far too tight. She doesn`t think she can eat right now.

“I hardly have a choice”, she says sourly, “My uncle ordered it.”

“Now, is it really so horrible?”, Andromache asks and winks at her, “We`re not so bad, you know.”

She reaches across the table for a peach, her fingers brush Mor`s as she does. Mor`s cheeks heat. Hastily, she averts her eyes, praying that the queen didn`t notice anything. Cauldron damn her.

It`s just her body reacting, she tells herself. She can control that. Except that it will be her doom if anyone notices the effect the golden-haired queen has on her – which is indefinitely more likely if Mor is now living in the same damned palace as her.

“I…”, she stutters, clears her throat and continues, “I didn`t mean it that way.”

Something like amusement glitters in Andromache`s eyes. Cauldron, she is beautiful. Mor sips from her water.

“It`s just that I´m more useful at the front”, she says, “I don`t even know what I`m supposed to do with myself here.”

“I`m sure we`ll find something for you.” Andromache picks up a grape and rolls it between her fingers. “Besides, I`m growing quite tired of sitting behind these palace walls all day. I`m planning to ride to battle with my troops as soon as possible. Who knows – maybe you`ll come with me.”

“It would be my pleasure”, Mor says.

She tries to sound casual, but her cheeks are heating again and she feels very much like a child. What is wrong with her?

“Is Miryam back already?”, she asks to steer the conversation back into safer waters.

“No”, Andromache says, “But I wouldn`t worry. Such meetings can take a while.”

Mor nods and turns her attention back to her plate. She can feel Andromache watching her.

“You…”, the queen says, unusual hesitation in her voice, “You are very fond of her, aren`t you?”

“Well, of course”, Mor says, “We`re friends.” What kind of question is this?

“Sure”, Andromache says, “Friends.”

Mor stares at her plate. She doesn`t try to restart the conversation and neither does Andromache. The silence between them feels heavy, full of unspoken words and questions.

As soon as the dinner is over, Mor excuses herself to go pack. She curls and uncurls her fingers as she walks through the corridors. Cauldron, she really, desperately needs to get a grip. If anyone finds out… It will be her end.

\----

The forest is alive around Miryam, she can feel it. It is watching her.

She doesn`t dare to light a fire and keeps her magic on a tight leash as she sits curled up under a huge tree. Shivering in her too-light dress, she prays that Helion will arrive soon.

In the trees, there is rustling and snarling that only gets worse as the sun sets. There are far more strings to be seen here than in any other uninhabited place Miryam has ever visited. They curl around trees and tremble as great beasts prowl past. What kind of place is this that it is so ripe with magic?

Miryam wishes she knew, but all she knows about the Middle is that the Holy Mountain in its centre is a sacred meeting place for the High Lords. She never learned much else on the land. Sure, the spell creating the Courts and tying them to their High Lords is interesting enough, but otherwise, Prythian always seemed so bland when compared to the Continent. And the fact that anyone who isn`t a High Fae male seems to be nearly worthless in Prythian certainly didn`t do much to endear the land to her.

But now she is stuck in that cursed forest, all on her own. She looks around between the trees, frowning. Where the hell is Helion?

_Little witch._

Miryam jumps to her feet at the whisper that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. “Who`s there?”, she whispers, not daring to raise her voice.

No reply. Miryam looks around, but she can`t see anything amongst the dark trees. A full-blooded Fae might have seen something, but Miryam is as good as blind in the dark. All she sees are the strings, and those are moving so fast now that she has a hard time reading them.

_Little witchhhh._

Is she imagining it, or does the voice sound closer now? There, amongst the trees, a spot seems darker than the rest. It is pure black, like a void. Like it is sucking up any light that reaches it.

 _Little witch_ , the thing hisses, _come here!_

Miryam stumbles back a step. A warrior might have drawn a weapon and charged. A trained witch could have chased that thing away with a well-placed spell. But Miryam is neither, so she does what she has always done in such situations: She runs. Branches snap under her feet, but she doesn`t care how much noise she`s making. All she cares about is getting away from that voice as fast as possible. She dashes through the forest and feels that dark presence moving behind her. Shit.

Then, she hears another noise, this one coming from the front. Miryam comes to a skittering halt. Panting, she leans against a tree and listens. Someone is there, she is sure.

“Hello Miryam”, a voice says from between the trees. Miryam forgets how to breathe properly. Artax. “Did you really think I wouldn`t find you after you left the party so rudely? You were very easy to track.” A soft laugh. “I would have thought you`d at least know how to avoid being tracked. But I probably shouldn`t have expected as much from someone with blood as tainted as yours.”

Miryam presses herself harder against the tree. Suddenly, whatever is following her doesn`t seem so bad anymore. From behind her, the presence is closing in. Miryam doesn`t wait around for it to catch her. She pushes herself off of the tree and darts to the left. Behind her, Artax laughs.

“This is pointless, girl”, he says. Branches snap as he begins to follow her.

Miryam doesn`t stand a chance. He is faster and more powerful. He will catch her and then, it will be over. Suddenly, Miryam stumbles into a clearing. There is a small cottage standing there.

 _Bad,_ Miryam`s instinct tells her, but whatever is waiting in there can`t be worse than the monster chasing her. She rips open the door and storms into the cabin.

 _I`m dead,_ is her first thought as she takes in the female who is sitting behind a spinning wheel, staring at her. Or maybe not staring, since she doesn`t have _eyes_. The female is beautiful – except for her face, which is crafted from the stuff of nightmares. Power is radiating from her, her aura midnight black. It occurs to Miryam that she may have made a horrible miscalculation in coming in here.

The door slams shut behind her. But she reins in her fear, even as the female sniffs and gets to her feet. Fear usually makes it worse.

Instead, she inclines her head. “I request sanctuary”, she says in a steady voice she learned years ago in Ravenia`s court.

The female rasps a laugh. The sound sends a shiver down Miryam`s spine.

“No one`s ever dared that before”, the female drawls in a voice that is both old and young, “But you aren`t exactly like the others, are you, Miryam?”

Miryam presses her back against the closed door. Ancient monsters addressing you by name is usually _not_ a good sign.

“Oh yes”, the female says, “I know who you are. The wind and sky whispered you name to me, little witch. And aren`t you an interesting one?”

Miryam`s eyes dart around the house. She sees the spinning wheel and the fabrics on the wall. Her senses tell her exactly what it is this female does – weaving people`s souls into these fabrics, using their life force to stay young forever. It is magic unlike any Miryam has ever seen, as old as this forest and so cold that she has to keep from shivering.

“You`re a lucky one, little witch”, the female says, “I`ll let you live – unlike most other beings in this forest. But only if you do me a favour in return.”

“What favour?”, Miryam asks and wonders why everyone seems to want a favour from her these days.

“I am bound to this forest”, the Weaver says, “It was a witch like you that bound me, and only a witch can free me.”

Miryam sees the enchantment binding the weaver. It is powerful, but old. Worn out. She could break it. But should she? Knowing what this Weaver is capable of, can she truly release her on this world? Her life is hardly worth the death of hundreds.

Carefully, she says, “I will break the enchantment binding you to this forest, if you allow me to leave the forest unharmed as soon as the enchantment is broken.”

The Weaver watches her with those dead not-eyes. “You`re a clever one”, she says, “So be it: It`s a bargain.”

Miryam bites back a smile. She chose her words carefully – if all goes well, she`ll walk free when this is over. But the weaver won`t.

She begins immediately. The Weaver is watching her, but with the bargain between them, the female can`t harm her. Miryam takes a deep breath and forces herself to calm down.

After an hour, the Weaver asks, “What takes you so long?”

“The spell is complicated”, Miryam replies softly.

It`s not quite a lie, but not the truth, either. She figured out how to unravel the spell half an hour ago. Now, she is working on a spell of her own. If this is to work, she`ll need to break the old spell and cast one of her own at the same time. One mistake and she will be done for.

When she is finally satisfied with the incarnation she created, she draws a circle on the ground, anchoring herself. Before she begins, she quickly looks put of the window. Artax seems to be gone, just as that strange presence. They likely think her dead.

She begins her incarnation, the circle flickering to life around her. The spell fights back against her, but at last, it breaks.

“Done”, Miryam says.

“Good.” The weaver`s gaze is still on her, a smile twists her horrible mouth into a grimace. She waves a hand and the door opens. “Now, I`d suggest you run, little witch. Because as soon as you leave this forest, you are fair game.”

“I don`t think so”, Miryam whispers.

Then, she dashes out of the door. Artax is indeed gone, but the Weaver follows her, fast, even for a Fae. The female only makes it a few steps, though. Then, she is yanked backwards by the enchantment Miryam wove. Binding her not to the forest, but to the cabin.

“Nooo”, she roars, “Liar! Come back!”

Miryam keeps running, even as her words seem to chase after her. She almost feels bad. Almost.

\----

When Mor returns to her camp (no longer hers, she reminds herself), it is silent. The sun has set hours ago and most soldiers already retreated to their tents. There are some sitting around fires, but Mor avoids them. She doesn`t feel like talking. At least not to a random stranger.

There are far too many thoughts running through her head. A part of her is still trembling from her visit to the Court of Nightmares. Her uncle`s words ring through her head. Leave the camp – she`ll truly have to leave. With a start, she realizes that she still needs to tell Miryam and Jurian. Except that Jurian is nowhere to be found and Miryam hasn`t returned yet. Cauldron, she hopes that nothing bad happened.

Andromache`s face flashes through her mind. _You`re quite fond of her, aren`t you?_ Mor prays she only imagined the implication in the words. The queen would be wrong, of course, but still, it would mean that she knows…

Cauldron, she needs to stop thinking about this, or she`ll lose her mind. Sighing, Mor makes her way to the stables. The horses perk up as she enters and she runs a hand through the mane of the nearest one. She loves horses, has loved them ever since she first learned riding.

Mor is so lost in her thoughts that she flinches when she hears steps approaching. A man leads a black stallion into the stables and it takes Mor a few seconds to recognise Jurian.

“Hey, Mor”, he says.

His voice sounds strained and he is far paler than usual. When he slides out of his saddle and begins to loosen it, she sees that his hands are shaking.

“Are you alright?”, Mor asks.

“I think I may have caught a cold or something”, Jurian says. _Lie._ His hands shake so badly that he barely manages to untie the saddle.

Mor makes the split-second decision not to ask further. “You should go to your tent”, she says, “I`ll take care of your horse.”

Jurian nods in thanks, then all but flees the tent. Mor frowns after him. Looks like there`s another thing for her to worry about. Maybe she should tell Miryam. By now, she should certainly be back and she`ll be far better suited to dealing with whatever is wrong with Jurian.

She leaves the stables, but she barely makes it more than a few steps before she freezes. Two Seraphim are standing together by one of the fires, their bodies so closely intertwined that Mor has a hard time making out individual shapes. But both of them are clearly female. And they are clearly kissing.

For a moment, Mor forgets to breathe. She has never seen two females being together that way – certainly not in the Hewn City or the Illyrian camps. If people there are… like her… they hide it. But these two don`t seem to care if anyone sees them. Indeed, another Seraphim soldier walks past and barely spares them more than a glance.

Impossible. And yet… If they are able to have this, why shouldn`t she?

“You look like you ran into a Bogge.”

Mor nearly jumps. “Cauldron”, she hisses and turns around, only to come face to face with Drakon. Hastily, she bows. “Your Highness.”

He winces. “Drakon, please. You`re Morrigan, right?”

“Mor.”

“Well, Mor”, Drakon says, “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” And before Mor can think any better of it, she inclines her head towards the two females who still haven`t noticed them. “You know them?”

“Sure.” He smiles briefly at the two of them. “Sinna is my highest ranking general and Nephelle leads our cartographers. I`ve known them my entire life.”

Mor`s heart skips a beat. That it is possible for the Erithian General to be openly together with another female without anyone caring…

“And they`re together?”, she asks, a bit breathlessly.

“Since before I was born.”

“Which wasn`t so long ago, was it?”, Mor mutters.

Drakon gives her a flat look and doesn`t bother with a reply. Mor almost feels bad. She wonders how many snide remarks about his age he gets on a daily basis. Somehow, she doubts that there are many centuries-old Fae who enjoy answering to a male who isn`t even thirty yet.

“You still look a little pale”, Drakon says, “You want to eat something?”

Mor tears her gaze away from the two females. She can`t continue to stare like this. “Sure”, she says.

They walk towards the middle of the camp. Drakon gets them both a soup bowl and passes one to Mor. She dips a bit of bread into the soup, but before she can take a bite, she notices two people rushing through the camp. She recognizes Miryam and Helion almost immediately.

“Excuse me”, she mutters and runs over. Drakon follows her.

Miryam looks like she lost a fight with a rosebush. Her dress is torn and she is covered in scratches, some of them bleeding slightly.

“What happened?”, Drakon asks. Mor is still speechless.

“Meeting gone wrong”, Miryam says, “Apparently, in Prythian, the guest right is valued less than on the Continent.”

Slowly, Mor turns around to Helion. There isn`t a scratch on the Heir of the Day Court.

Mor pours out her soup bowl over him. Soup drips down his face and all over his clothes. He just stares at her. Miryam gasps, Drakon makes a strangled sound that sounds like a barely-concealed laugh.

“You were supposed to protect her”, Mor hisses.

“I`m sorry”, Helion says and lifts his hands, “It was a trap, I was called away.”

“Then you shouldn`t have left!” Mor spins around to Miryam. “Are you hurt?”

“Just scratches”

Miryam smiles, but Mor isn`t convinced. She is perfectly aware that Miryam could still smile convincingly while she was dying inside, and something tells her that the scratches are her friend`s smallest problem right now. But she isn`t about to pry – certainly not in front of Drakon and Helion.

“And you?”, Miryam asks, scanning her from head to toe.

“It was alright”, Mor says, “I`ll tell you later.” She`ll tell Miryam that she is leaving tomorrow. Not tonight. “Do you want me to help bandage those scratches?”

Miryam shakes her head. She looks around. “Is Jurian back already?”

“Yes”, Mor says, “He`s in his tent. Said he was feeling ill.”

Miryam nods. Worry flickers over her face, then vanishes as she reins the feeling in. “I should go see if he`s alright”, she says, “I`ll see you tomorrow.”

Mor waits until she is out of hearing range. Then, she turns around to Helion.

“And you”, she says, “are going to tell me exactly what happened.”

Helion uses his sleeve to wipe the soup off his face and begins to talk. With each word, Mor´s anger grows.

“I should have known something like this would happen”, Helion finishes, “The Guild cares about nothing more than their pure bloodlines. To have anyone who isn`t entirely Fae – a half-human, no less – inherit a power they consider sacred is as good as a sacrilege to them. I should have known they`d try to kill her.”

“I though witches are forbidden from killing each other”, Mor says. It`s one of their most sacred rules, going so far that they will refuse to fight in battle if another member of the Guild is on the enemy side.

“I doubt they consider her to be a witch”, Helion says, “They probably see her as a stain to be wiped out.”

Mor curses softly. So it will be both the Black Land and the Guild after Miryam.

“Still”, Drakon says, frowning, “you couldn`t have known that this Lord Beron would break guest right. It makes him _sheké_.” 

It`s the Continental word for _honourless_. Miryam once explained to her that there are certain rules underlying Continental politics: Announce in advance if you`re going to break a treaty, keep your end of a deal if the other person kept theirs, respect guest right. To go against any of these rules is to lose your honour. It makes your word worthless.

Still, Mor frowns. “But Beron didn`t technically break the rules, did he? He just worked his way around them. I thought that`s basically what Continental politics is about.”

“But not for guests right”, Drakon insists, “That is set in stone: You can`t allow your guests to be harmed in any way.” He shakes his head. “Beron may have won himself an Alliance, but his word lost all worth in the eyes of the entire Continent. Not even the Loyalists will respect him for that.”

Helion huffs a sigh. “The Continent is so complicated. Really makes you appreciate Prythian.”

Drakon shrugs. “Normally, I´d agree – Continental politics are a nightmare. But it`s still better than treating everyone who isn`t a High Fae male like trash. So sorry, but I prefer the Continent.”

“Ouch”, Helion mutters, but he laughs, “I`ll have you know that the Day Court is a lot more open-minded than most other Courts in Prythian.”

Mor jokingly pats him on the shoulder. “The Continent is still better”, she says, “just deal with it.”

Here, she can do what would have never been possible in Prythian: Be herself, without having to fear judgment.

\----

Jurian doesn`t know how long he has been kneeling on the ground in his tent. Minutes? Hours? He doesn`t think he can get up, or even move. When he got back, he tried to wash – scrubbed at his skin until it was almost bleeding – but he thinks he can still feel that… female`s fingers all over him. He has never felt this dirty.

 _For your people,_ he repeats to himself, _for their freedom._ The words sound so hollow now.

The entrance to his tent moves softly, the noise barely audible. Then, soft steps sound. Jurian knows who it is even without turning around. He would know her anywhere.

“Jur”, Miryam whispers and kneels down next to him, “Are you…”, she trails off.

He tries to smile, but can`t quite manage it

“Is it okay if I touch you?”, she asks softly.

Jurian nods and she pulls him close. Before he can stop himself, he is crying against her shoulder. He wants to stop (he should be stronger than this, it shouldn`t bother him as much), but he can`t. They sit in silence until Jurian finally manages to stop crying.

“Don`t go there again”, Miryam finally says.

Jurian pulls away from her to look at her. “I have to.” Even if the thought makes him want to throw up. “The information I could get…”

But Miryam shakes her head. “It`s not worth it. _Nothing_ is worth this.”

“I can do this”, Jurian says. When Miryam still shakes her head, he frowns at her, “You aren`t jealous, are you? This is not what it`s about, right?”

“What?” Miryam jerks back from him. “You truly think that?”

Jurian shrugs.

“Okay”, Miryam says softly, “Then let me make this clear once and for all: I`m not jealous. Go ahead and seduce Clythia for all that I care. Fuck her until she has sold out all of Hybern. I don`t care.” She reaches for his hand. “But I care about _you_. Just look at yourself, Jur. Look at what this is doing to you.”

“I can do this”, Jurian repeats. He has to.

“No, you can`t”, Miryam says. When he doesn`t reply, she adds, “And _I_ can`t lose you.”

Jurian squeezes her hand. “You won`t lose me, love. Never.”

“If you do this, I will. Because you`ll lose _yourself_.”

He wonders if she truly believes that, or if she`s just saying it to keep him from seeing Clythia again. His money is on it being the latter. It would be just like her to use the arguments she believes most likely to get him to give in. And it`s sweet that she worries that much, but it`s also really inconvenient right now.

“Miryam…”, he begins.

“You promised”, she says, her voice turning hard, “You promised that you`d do anything for me. And if you won`t stop seeing Clythia for your own sake, then do it for _me_.”

Jurian hesitates only for a heartbeat. Because all the information in the world isn`t worth losing Miryam for it.

“I won`t meet with her again”, he says, “I swear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I`ve decided to make the Continent a lot more open-minded/modern than Prythian. It`s a headcanon of mine, although it does have textual evidence. Besides, I see no reason whatsoever why a fictional society should be sexist or homophobic.
> 
> The next chapter will be another time jump, this time a longer one. I feel kind of bad about it, because it means I can't really show some of the developments that are going to happen, but this fic is already way longer than I planned and I'm only about halfway through, so I can't show every tiny detail.


	22. Chapter 22

## Chapter 22

The war keeps raging.

Soon, the days begin to blur together into a never-ending circle of battles, each one more brutal than the last. It seems like each battle ends with more corpses lying on the battlefield after the fighting ceases. Corpses piling high, entire swaths of land reduced to ashes. Sometimes, Miryam feels like the entire world is drenched.

For a few months, the Alliance keeps the upper hand. But before long, the tide begins to turn. They are losing ground and soldiers, far more than the enemy. And suddenly, they are not winning anymore.

Battle after battle, day after day. Miryam is being sent around more, now. Soon, she begins to cherish the diplomatic trips. They are far better than the days when her help in battle is requested. She hates those days the most (she is not a soldier, she never wanted to _be_ a soldier), but she is their only witch, so there is no choice. Some days, the Loyalists send one of their own witches to battle against her. Even when Miryam does her best to limit herself to wards, those days still end with scorched earth, entire battalions of soldiers dying in the span of heartbeats. It still surprises Miryam that she ends up winning the fights more times than not.

With each passing day, she understands more about her powers. But even though setting up wards, countering spells, now feels as natural as breathing, her magic becomes unwieldy. It feels like with each time she uses it, it slips her control more. It begins tugging at her, pushing her to let go of her control. At first, she thinks nothing of it, but soon, she has to fight for control more and more.

She doesn`t tell anyone about it. Not even Jurian. After all, everyone else is as busy as she is, trying to put out fires left and right. She figures no one really needs her problems on top of their own and with everything that is going on, her trouble with her magic seem so insignificant they are barely worth talking about.

The months bleed together. Soon, the war has been raging for two years. Three. Still, no end of the slaughter is in sight. So they keep fighting. And the war keeps raging.

\----

They`ve been sparring for close to an hour. It has been raining all day, so they are both soaked to the bone and covered in mud. It is quite annoying, really, but Jurian certainly isn`t about to be the first to suggest that Drakon could put up a shield against the rain. If he`s being honest, he hoped the prince would do it on his own account, but he seems to be just as stubborn as Jurian and by now, they are both wet enough that it doesn`t matter anymore.

After another half an hour, they finally lower their swords. Drakon shakes his wings, sending mud flying everywhere. Then, he flicks his wrist and both him and Jurian are instantly dry.

“Fancy”, Jurian mutters, “If you ever get tired of the Prince-thing, you could still make a living as a hairdryer.”

Drakon laughs and passes Jurian his water bottle. “I think I`ll pass on that offer.”

If anyone would have told Jurian three years ago that he would ever consider a Fae – a prince, no less – one of his closest friends, he would have called the person a madman. But over the past two years, Drakon has truly become one of his closest friends. They share the running of the camp – together with Miryam, of course – and he supposes that could either lead to them becoming enemies or friends.

“Where`s Miryam, anyways?”, Drakon asks.

“Off in Telique. There was some politics stuff that needed to be done, but she should be back soon.” It`s only half the truth. The human queens wanted to see Miryam over some meeting they have planned, but it was supposed to be secret, so Jurian isn`t about to talk about it in the middle of the camp. He passes the water bottle back to Drakon and grins at him. “And while we`re talking about my amazing lover: What about you?”

“What?”

“Well, do you have your eyes set on anyone?” Jurian winks at him. “You and Mor seem to be getting along quite well. Is there anything you aren`t telling me?”

“No”, Drakon says, “No on both counts. I´m friends with Mor, nothing else.”

“Come on, now”, Jurian says, “There has to be _someone_. Our lives are serious enough as it is, a little joy on the side is good for you. And you really shouldn`t have trouble finding anyone.”

Truth is, Jurian thinks a little distraction would be good for Drakon – and if it turned into something serious, that would be even better. With the War, they are all busy, but Drakon isn`t just trying to keep his army together, but also run a country at the same time. As one of his best friends (together with Miryam, that is), Jurian is a bit worried.

Unfortunately, Drakon shakes his head. “There isn`t anyone. Really”, he says.

“Oh, come on, surely-“

“What are you talking about?”, a voice asks from behind them.

They both turn around to Miryam. She has pulled the hood of her cloak deep into her face to ward off the rain and is jumping from one foot to the other against the cold.

“Uhm…”, Jurian says. He looks to Drakon for help, but he quickly begins brushing some dirt off his wings. Coward. “Boy stuff”, Jurian finishes a bit lamely.

Miryam looks between them, brows raised. “Are you trying to play matchmaker for poor Drakon again?”

“No?”, Jurian says. When Miryam doesn`t look convinced, he throws his hands in the air in expiration. “Fine! I stand by what I said: Him and Mor should give it a try.”

Miryam frowns slightly. Unlike Jurian, she doesn`t seem to think that the two of them fit together, but she never told him the reason. Maybe he should ask her sometime. For all he knows, Mor might be interested in someone else.

“Talking about Mor”, Miryam says, “It`s her birthday in a few weeks.”

“You`re planning anything?”, Drakon asks. He seems eager to take the subject away from his non-existent relationships.

“We haven`t celebrated birthdays in a while”, Jurian points out. Usually, the war doesn`t allow it.

“Exactly”, Miryam says, “We`ve had preciously little to celebrate these past months. Maybe we should change that sometime.”

\----

The meeting room is smaller than their usual one Telique. Darker, too. But it serves its purpose well enough, given that it only has to host less than half of the Alliance council`s members and that the meeting is supposed to be secret. Miryam had to spend the better part of the last day setting up wards around the palace a few hours away from Telique that they are using as their meeting place.

“I don`t like this”, she says softly, “If the Fae find out that we`re meeting without them – in secret, no less – it will be considered a political éclat.”

“I`m sure they also have separate meetings of their own”, one of the human queens says.

“Not that I know of.”

“If you are so against this”, Nakia drawls, “then do us all a favour and just _leave_. I don`t know why you got invited anyways, given that this is supposed to be an all-humans meeting.”

That comment earns her a glare from Andromache and a soft hiss from Jurian, who is sitting to Miryam`s right. Miryam for her part just ignores it. After three years of sitting on the Alliance council, she is quite used to Nakia`s sharp comments. The insults barely even sting anymore.

“What is it you called us here to discuss, then?”, she asks in her best _just get this over with_ voice.

Nakia leans back in her chair. “I think by now, it should be clear to everyone that we are not exactly winning this war anymore. It is past time we take precautions.”

Jurian bristles. “The war is far from decided. It is too early to turn tails and run.”

“Still”, Nakia says, “it is our duty as rulers to think of ways to save our people, should this end badly.” She glances around the room, face grave. “Out Fae allies have less at stake than we do. They might lose some influence, but for us, losing might mean that every human will become a slave. We cannot risk this.”

Murmurs of agreement rise around the table. Miryam nods as well. What Nakia is saying is the truth, but she sees no way to solve that problem. They have always been gambling with high stakes in this war, but there is no other option for them to play the game.

“A good idea”, she says, nodding to Nakia. For all their personal dislike for one another, she can respect the queen`s dedication to her people. “What manner of precautions were you thinking of?”

“That is what I called you here to discuss”, Nakia says.

So they discuss. For hours, or so it seems.

“We`d need a way to keep the Fae out of the human lands”, Andromache says after a while, “Like a wall.”

“Yeah, sure”, Jurian mutters, “Let`s just pile up a bunch of bricks around the human lands. Might slow these bastards down for a total of five seconds.”

Miryam nudges him in the side. They are both tired after a sleepless night spent stuck in another meeting, but Andromache is their friend and ally. Speaking out against her like this is bad form.

“And if we used magic?”, one of the non-royal human commanders asks, “I mean, if we could create some kind of strong magical barrier – like a ward - around our lands, it might serve the purpose.”

“Might be a good idea no matter how this war ends”, someone mutters, “I, for one, would like to keep the Fae permanently out of our lands.”

“We`d still need the Fae for that, though”, another says.

“Not necessarily”, Nakia cuts in.

And suddenly, everybody is looking at Miryam. It takes her a heartbeat to catch on. (Cauldron, she is tired.)

“No”, she says, shaking her head, “I can`t… You`d need an impenetrable ward, able to hold back Fae and withstand their powers. Not only that, but it would need to be thousands of miles long. I don`t even think such a thing is possible.”

“You _think_ ”, Nakia says, “You don`t _know_.”

“Well, I`ve certainly never heard of anything like it.”

“But you haven`t looked into it, either.”

Miryam has to fight to keep the annoyance out of her voice as she says, “No. But even if it _was_ possible, I wouldn`t be able to do it. It would be too complicated.” And with the way her magic is acting recently, she certainly doesn`t want to risk trying. She seems to lose control the more she uses her power, and even trying anything of that size might well be the thing to send her over the edge.

“Are you sure?”, Nakia asks, “Or is it just that you don`t really care what happens to the rest of us, as long as your precious slaves get freed?”

The entire table falls silent. Miryam just stares at her.

“You take that back”, Jurian says softly but with an edge in his voice.

Nakia lifts her chin. “Am I wrong?”

“Of course you`re wrong!” Miryam shakes her head. “I… How can you even say something like this?”

“Nakia”, Andromache says, frowning, “You`re way out of line.”

The queen hesitates for a heartbeat, then shrugs. “Apologies”, she drawls, but the smug expression remains on her face.

“Miryam”, Andromache says hesitantly, “I think we all understand that there are challenges. But it might still be worth looking into, don`t you think?”

Miryam doesn`t want to look into it. Not at all. Unfortunately, everyone else is looking at her hopefully, which means there is no way she can refuse. And even if she could… There are lives on the line. Thousands of them if this war does indeed end badly.

“I`ll do my best”, she says, “But I can`t promise anything.”

\----

For the first time in weeks, the camp is quiet. Both Miryam and Jurian are gone for some meeting Drakon isn`t supposed to know about, it has been weeks since the last battle and for once, there aren`t any fires to put out. All letters are answered, his two other armies are fine and Drakon spent the entire day solving the most pressing issues back in Erithia with his council.

For once without anything pressing to do, Drakon has retreated to his tent. The entire table and large parts of the ground are covered in books and papers. Drakon is just finishing up the last paragraph of his thesis when the tent`s entrance opens. As a gust of wind blows in, some of the papers start rustling and he hastily sets up a ward.

“Sorry”, Miryam says and hastily pulls the entrance close behind her. Curiously, she looks around. “What happened here?”

“Oh, uhm…” Drakon surveys the chaos he created. His cheeks heat. “It`s nothing, really. Just something I`ve been working on.”

“Can I see it?”, Miryam asks. She carefully steps over the papers to the table.

“It`s not finished”, Drakon mutters.

And he doesn`t usually show around the things he writes. When he was younger and studying at university, he published a few papers, but no one but a few scholars ever cared about what he had to say, and he hasn`t done it since he became Prince. But Miryam is one of his closest friends these days. If he can show it to anyone, it would be her.

He sighs and hands over the sheets of paper he just finished. “It isn`t edited”, he says, “Just a few thoughts, really. You`ll find it boring.”

“I doubt it”, Miryam says and takes the paper, “You`ve never shown me your writing before.”

Her eyes dart over the pages. Drakon can barely watch as she reads, frowning slightly in concentration. He begins cleaning up his books, mostly just to have something to do with his hands. Finally, Miryam sets down the paper.

“Just a little something?”, she asks, “Drakon, this is amazing!”

Now, he blushes in earnest. “Well…”, he mutters.

“Why don`t you ever let anyone see?”

“I`ve learned my lesson about playing around in international politics, Miryam”, he says, “I`m not making the same mistake twice.”

Miryam, however, is not deterred. (She`s nothing if not determined.) “This isn`t politics, though.” She waves the paper at him. “And something like this could truly make a difference.”

“Wouldn`t it be better if this was written by a human?”

“Yes”, Miryam says, “And if we lived in an ideal world, Fae might actually care about the words of a human. As it stands, though, the word of a Fae – a Fae royal, no less – have far more weight.”

Drakon flares his wings in annoyance and puts the last book on a stack. “And you truly think anyone would listen? To _me_?”

He knows exactly what most of the Continent thinks of him. Miryam and Jurian may be too polite to tell him of the whispered insults, but his emissary is obliged to inform him of what`s going on in the Alliance.

“Not being able to play by their rules is only a weakness as long as you make it out to be one”, Miryam says, “You could own up to it, stop running. You have enough strengths by far – you shouldn`t let yourself be reduced to one thing you can`t do.”

Well, he can certainly imagine how she managed to create this Alliance from scratch. How she gets Fae who are centuries her senior to do her bidding. For a second, Drakon is almost tempted to give in. But then, the image of his family`s statues on the Mountain of the Dead flashes through his mind. He remembers the absolutely horrible feeling of standing in Ravenia`s palace, knowing fully well that he is messing up every single rule of Continental politics. He imagines what it would be like to join the Alliance council meetings – the whispers and pitying looks. The pretty words hiding sharp insults that he never manages to detect because he just can`t keep the thousands of rules straight.

“No”, he says softly. “I´m sorry, but I can`t.”

Miryam watches him closely. Whatever she sees in his face has her set down the papers. “Alright”, she says and nods towards the entrance. “I was going to visit Rhys to arrange Mor`s party. You want to come?”

Drakon tries not to feel like a coward for refusing. _It`s for the best_ , he tells himself.

“Sure”, he says and offers his arm to Miryam. “Let`s go.”


	23. Chapter 23

## Chapter 23

“Must we?”, Mor asks.

It is early evening, and she is more than ready for this day to be over. Her night ended a few hours past midnight when a group of Fae attacked Telique. They were easily thwarted, of course, but Mor got a nasty cut on her left arm by stepping in front of a blow meant for Andromache. (Something the queen did not appreciate at all.) And as if having to fight in her nightgown wasn`t bad enough, she then had to endure the endless row of meetings following the failed attack.

“Yes”, Andromache says. She takes her arm and begins tugging her through the palace, something like mischief glinting in her brown eyes. “I promised Miryam.”

“I`m sure she`ll understand”, Mor mutters.

“Easy for you to say. It´s not you who she`ll be mad at.” They have almost reached the huge doors leading to the gardens now. “We`re going, and that`s final.”

“It`s just…”, Mor begins, but trails off. It`s just that it`s her birthday and she doesn`t want to spend the evening discussing war strategies. She at the very least wants to have a few hours to herself, if this damned war stole the rest of her day already.

“What?”, Andromache asks, turning around to her. There is such light dancing in her eyes that Mor`s resolve melts away into nothing. Something in her eases as she looks at the queen.

“Nothing”, she says softly.

Still, Andromache does not look away. The intensity in her gaze makes Mor`s cheeks burn.

“I…”, she stutters, “let`s go, then.”

Andromache smiles like she knows exactly what is going on inside Mor`s head. She does not comment, though. This has been their dance for the past couple of months. And since Mor has been well away from anyone from the Night Court for months now, she allows herself to continue with it – even though she knows she probably shouldn`t.

She takes Andromache by the arm, the touch sending sparks shooting through her body, and winnows them both away. As soon as they land safely in the war camp, she hastily lets go. As soon as her hand leaves Andromache`s, she already misses her warmth.

“Come on!”, Andromache says, dragging her along with an excitement that seems entirely inappropriate for a military meeting. When they reach the planning tent, the queen gives her a gentle shove, making her step inside first.

Mor gapes.

The huge table in the middle of the tent has been cleared off the maps that are usually lying there. Instead, it is filled with food, a huge cake with thirty-two candles sitting in the middle. Around the table, her friends are standing, smiling at her – Miryam and Jurian, side by side, Tia, Drakon and-

“Rhys!”, Mor squeals, “Az!”

“Couldn`t well let my favourite cousin celebrate her thirty-second birthday alone, could I?”, Rhys drawls.

Mor just jumps into his arms and holds on tight. They haven`t seen each other in months. Then, she spins around to Az and embraces him as well. She hears the hitch in his breath, sees the way his shadows seem to lighten at her touch. Her cheeks heat, but the feeling his touch sends shooting through her is nothing at all like what she felt when she touched Andromache earlier. With the queen, Mor felt warm and light – with Azriel, she is just uneasy at the clear hints at the feelings he confessed to her on that horrible night fifteen years ago. As quickly as she can, she lets go of him and turns around to beam at the others.

“I tried to bring Cassian as well”, Miryam says, “but I couldn`t find a way to get him out of his tent without anyone noticing.”

Cassian`s absence puts a small damper on Mor`s mood, but she is still so overwhelmed that she can only grin like a fool.

“Thank you”, she whispers, “Thank you all so much.”

Andromache shoves past her into the tent and plops down on a cushion next to Drakon. “Thank Miryam”, she says, “Most of the credit goes to her.”

Miryam opens her mouth – likely to object – but Mor beats her to it. She dashes around the table and pulls her into her arms. “Thank you”, she whispers into her hair.

“Happy birthday, Mor”, Miryam replies softly.

They all sit down around the table. Mor ends up between Rhys and Az, the latter of whom keeps shooting her covert glances. Her stomach tightens uncomfortably. But then, Jurian calls out to her to _just blow out the candles already so they can eat_. The entire table laughs and Mor leans forward to do as he says.

Mor eats until she feels like her stomach is about to burst – and then another small slice of cake on top. They talk and laugh and for the first time in months, the war seems far away. They are just a group of young people, happy to be alive and together for the evening.

She looks around the table at her friends. Miryam is leaning against Jurian, who is absentmindedly playing with her hair. Tia has begun chatting with Az and Drakon is laughing at something Rhys is telling him. She meets Andomaches` eyes across the table. The queen winks at her.

“You haven`t opened your presents yet”, Jurian tells her at that moment.

Mor`s eyes widen as Drakon snaps his fingers, the rest of the food disappears and a few packages wrapped in colourful paper appear. Mor opens a long, heavy box first. Inside, she finds a long, slender sword and four daggers. The tips of the blades are slightly curved, the metal strangely light – lightning forged into weapons. Mor turns to Drakon, gaping.

“For me?”, she whispers. The Prince nods.

Mor squeals and hugs him. The Seraphim are known throughout the entire Continent for their master-forgery. They guard their weapons almost as closely as the secret to their creation, though. Only very rarely do they gift their weapons to outsiders – foreign royals, usually.

“I`m… honoured”, she manages, although the words barely manage to convey her feeling. Drakon shrugs a bit sheepishly and smiles at her.

From Miryam and Jurian, she gets a new armour – well, the armour is from Jurian, and Miryam inscribed it with runes that should help ward off basic spells and protect her against severe hits. Rhys got her a beautiful red dress and from Az, she gets a new saddle for her horse. Finally, there is only one small package left.

“From me”, Andromache says with a slight smile.

This package is far smaller than the others. Mor rips open the deep-red paper and reveals a small box made of dark wood. Carefully, Mor opens it and gasps. A necklace of white diamonds glitters within. Matching earrings lie next to them.

“Oh”, Mor whispers. Her hand shoots to her mouth.

“I`ll help you put them on”, Andromache says and darts around the table.

Gently, she brushes Mor`s hair aside. Her fingers brush against her collarbone, sending sparks of heat shooting through Mor.

“There you go”, the queen whispers and fastens the necklace.

“Absolutely stunning”, Drakon tells her. Azriel seems to sink deeper into his shadows.

“Isn`t that a heirloom?”, Miryam asks softly. Her eyes flicker from the necklace to Andromache and back again.

“Yes”, Andromache says. She is standing so close behind Mor that she can feel her breath tickling her neck.

Mor spins around to her to face her. “What?”

“I thought they`d suit you.” Andromache shrugs. “They glow as brightly as you do.”

Mor smiles at her and for a heartbeat, they are the only people in the room. But then, Rhys claps her back and makes some light-hearted comment Mor barely hears. Music starts drifting in from the camp and somehow, they all end up filing outside to join the soldiers celebrating outside.

Mor ends up on the dancing floor, twirling around with one soldier after another. People keep passing her drinks and Mor downs them in one shot, laughing as she keeps dancing.

Then suddenly, she finds herself face to face with Andromache, her hands on the human woman`s hips. Mor`s blood is boiling, but at the same time, something like dread shoots through her. She makes to pull away, but Andromache gently takes hold of her hands.

“Dance with me”, she whispers, “What`s the worst that could happen?”

Mor should say no, she knows it too damn well. But then, why not risk it? Just this once. After all, she`s on the Continent, not in Prythian and if this happiness is possible for Sinna and Nephelle, why shouldn`t she get a chance? And maybe she is more drunk than she thought, because she takes Andromache by the waist and pulls her close.

“A wonderful day”, Mor whispers. Her voice sounds hoarse even in her own ears.

“Indeed.” She can feel Andromache`s smile.

For a while, they dance in silence. Their bodies move in perfect harmony. Mor feels more at home than ever in the past months.

“What are you thinking?”, the queen asks softly.

“That we should have done this much sooner”, Mor replies.

In this night, with the stars glittering above, all the reasons not to seem far away. There is just Andromache, vibrant and beautiful. And for some reason Mor cannot possibly imagine, clearly interested in her. It is a dream come true.

They dance closer and closer together. Mor`s entire body is on fire. This is what she wants, she realizes. She has never wanted anything more than this. Andromache`s hair tingles her cheek.

“You`re so beautiful”, Mor whispers into her ear.

Their faces are close, so close now. Andromache`s lips part slightly.

Mor doesn`t know why, but for a heartbeat, her gaze leaves the queen`s face. To find Azriel staring at her. A shadow wraps around his ear. The shadowsinger`s face seems impassive, but Mor can read the confusion in his eyes. The suspicion that`s beginning to form. Just like that, the fire in her blood turns to ice.

She pulls apart from Andromache, stumbling back a step.

“What`s wrong?”, Andromache asks. Concern and hurt war on her face.

“I…”, Mor stutters. She can see nothing but the look on Azriel`s face. “I have to go. Sorry.”

She turns around and begins pushing through the crowd. Andromache remains standing between the dancing soldiers. Lost. Hurt. Mor has to force herself to keep walking. Her heart races. She imagines Azriel`s eyes following her. She can almost feel his gaze, searing on her back.

This shouldn`t have happened. Oh Cauldron, how could she be so stupid? To think that a thousand miles of distance would be enough to keep her away from her family. Because even if Azriel and Rhys should understand, word is sure to get back to her family.

It will destroy her. Because as soon as her father finds out this one part of her that she kept secret, he won`t stop until he has destroyed her. It will be her end.

But if Az suspects already… What can she do? How can she fix this.

“Are you alright?” Suddenly, Drakon is standing in front of her, a look of concern on his face.

Mor has a hard time breathing. They can`t know, none of them can know.

“Hey.” Drakon gently takes her by the arm. “What`s wrong?”

Mor dares a look around her shoulder. Azriel is still watching. And suddenly, Mor has an idea.

“Dance with me”, she says.

“What?”

“ _Please_.”

Mor takes his hands and puts them on her waist. When she begins to dance, Drakon follows her lead, thank the Cauldron. His confusion is written clearly on his face, though. And still, Azriel is staring at them. His look is like that chamber beneath the Hewn City, like the feeling of nails tearing through her body.

This isn`t convincing enough. So Mor gives Drakon her best, dazzling smile – even though she feels more like crying.

“Pretend to be flirting with me”, she whispers to Drakon.

“ _What_?” Now, he sounds fully confused.

“Please”, Mor begs, “I can`t explain, I just… Please.”

Drakon hesitates only for a heartbeat. Then, he pulls her closer, smiling brightly at her.

“Like this?”, he asks softly, “If I do anything you don`t want, just tell me.”

Mor has to keep from sagging with relief. “You too”, she whispers. “And thank you.”

She runs her fingers through Drakon`s hair. For a while, they keep dancing in silence. Mor is careful to keep smiling, keep touching Drakon.

“I`m sure he`ll catch the hint”, Drakon finally says.

Mor misses a step and stumbles, he steadies her. It takes her a heartbeat to realize that he doesn`t know. Drakon likely just noticed Azriel staring, and came to the conclusion that Mor just wants to get rid of an unwanted admirer.

“It`s not that easy”, she whispers, “I don`t want to hurt him.”

And this will hurt Azriel, that much is sure. Her choosing a prince over him –

“That is very kind of you”, Drakon says, “But he does not have a claim on you. You owe him nothing, and certainly not what he clearly wants from you. And if he`s worth anything at all, he will accept that.”

Mor takes a shuddering breath. She can feel tears burning in her eyes. Then, she`s full-out crying.

“It`s okay”, Drakon whispers and gently rubs her back.

Before she can help herself, she is crying on Drakon`s shoulder. He whispers soothing words to her, but Mor barely hears what he is saying. It`s just too much. All of it.

But eventually, her tears stop and they pull apart. When Mor looks over Drakon`s shoulder, Azriel is no longer standing at the side of the dancing floor.

\----

“This was a wonderful idea”, Jurian whispers into Miryam`s ear.

She nods. She doesn`t even remember when she felt this… light the last time. Like a weight she hasn`t even known she was carrying vanished from her shoulders. She danced with Jurian until she was dizzy. Now, they are sitting side by side at the edge of the dancing floor. Jurian is running his fingers through her hair.

“Looks like we aren`t the only ones having fun”, he says.

Miryam follows his gaze and frowns. She can`t believe her eyes. “Wait… Are those Mor and Drakon?”

“Yep.” Jurian sounds extremely smug. “I`ve always thought they`d fit well together.”

“And I always thought neither of them seemed really interested”, Miryam mutters. But there they are, dancing together so closely that there`s hardly any space left between them.

“Why?”

Miryam shrugs. “Just a feeling.”

Truth is, she was almost entirely sure that Mor had a thing for Andromache – and that the queen returned the feeling. With how the two of them were acting, she was convinced it would only be a matter of time before they made their relationship known. It doesn`t take her long to find Andromache – the queen is just storming away from the dancing. The Shadowsinger, Azriel, looks almost as miserable.

“Maybe you were wrong”, Jurian points out gently, “Has to happen from time to time, right?”

Miryam is pretty sure she isn`t wrong on this. But Mor and Drakon are indeed looking very cosy, and Miryam is not about to gossip about her friend like this, so she just nods.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the soldiers dance. Miryam leans her head against Jurian`s shoulder and smiles softly.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “There`s something I have been meaning to ask. For a while, actually.”

His tone is tense enough that Miryam sits up straighter and turns around to face him. “Okay?”

“I was wondering…” He keeps his eyes carefully trained on the dancing soldiers. “I heard that when half-Fae inherit magical abilities, they are usually also immortal. And, well…”

“I`m as mortal as you are”, Miryam says, saving him the trouble of having to come up with a way to phrase his question. “Usually, half-Fae with powers really _are_ immortal, but they also have their powers from childhood. I didn`t. And Fae and humans age differently from the very beginning – for them, it takes twenty-five years to mature, for us only eighteen. I aged the human way so far, and I doubt it will change.”

Jurian nods thoughtfully. “Do you regret it?”, he asks.

Miryam laughs softly. “No.” She doesn`t even need to think about the reply. “Most people probably would, but I don`t want to live forever. It makes life indefinitely more precious to know that it isn`t forever.”

“I agree.” Jurian grins. “Probably makes us the only two people in the world.”

“Probably.”

Jurian is silent for a moment, then, a smile slowly begins to form on his face, “Hold on. You mean that Fae literally mature more slowly than humans? They don`t just come of age later?”

“No, it really takes them longer to mature.”

“Twenty-five, you say?” Jurian grins even more broadly now. “Amazing!”

Miryam arches an eyebrow at him. She can`t for her life think of anything that would be so amazing about Fae aging more slowly. It only makes sense, given that they also live much longer, but Miryam never considered it to be particularly exciting.

But Jurian says, “If I`m twenty-three and human, and Drakon`s twenty-eight as a Fae, that means I`m technically older than him. At least on a maturity level, if you know what I mean.”

Miryam gives him a playful shove. “Well, that comment certainly goes to prove how much more _mature_ you are.”

Jurian laughs and puts his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. They remain sitting like this until well past midnight. Until the dancing has stopped and most of the soldiers have left.

“We should go to bed”, Jurian finally says.

Miryam nods. They are at war – they don`t have the luxury of staying up all night, looking up at the stars. He gets up and offers Miryam a hand to pull her to her feet. They walk through the camp side by side. As usual, they stop before Miryam`s tent.

“Goodnight”, Jurian says and turns around to leave.

“Wait.”

The word slips out before Miryam can stop herself. She bites her lip.

“Yes?”, Jurian says softly.

Miryam hesitates. They have been in a relationship for almost three years now. Still, they continue to sleep in separate tents. Jurian hasn`t pushed her on it. Not once. He`s waiting for her to take the first step, and so far, Miryam hasn`t. She decided that she wanted to do it months ago already, but so far, she hasn`t found the courage.

Jurian is still looking at her, waiting for a reply.

Miryam mentally kicks herself and says, “You could stay.”

“You`re sure?” He steps closer to her and takes her hand in his. “I don`t want you to do something you`re not comfortable with just because you… feel some kind of pressure.”

It is a way out – and Miryam loves him for offering it to her. Still, she shakes her head. “I`m not comfortable”, she says, looking him straight in the eye. “But I don`t think I`ll ever _be_ comfortable. And I feel like the longer I run away from this, the worse it gets.” She shakes her head. “Let us just… try. It`s what I want, really.”

Jurian nods. “We can sleep next to each other, if you want. There`s really no need to go further if you don`t want to.”

Miryam gives him a relieved smile. That sounds easy enough. She loves him, after all, and she has been waiting for this moment for months. This will be fine. There really is no need for her to be scared.

He follows her into her tent. For a moment, they stand around awkwardly.

“Soo”, Miryam says, blushing, “I should probably change.”

Jurian doesn`t say anything. He just watches her. Miryam begins fiddling around with the buttons of her tunic and turns her back to him.

“I could turn around”, Jurian offers.

“No”, Miryam says, loosening the last button. Her fingers shake and she takes a deep breath. “It`s just… not very pretty, I`m afraid. And I´d rather not see the look on your face when you see it.”

Taking a final deep breath, she pulls off her tunic. Jurian gasps.

“Yes, I know”, Miryam says softly.

She knows exactly what she looks like. Her entire body is covered in scars. Burns and cuts, some of them punishments for mistakes, others for simply existing. The only reason they spared her face was that most Fae prefer their slaves to be pleasant to look at.

“I…”, Jurian begins, then trails off.

Miryam reaches for her tunic. Her cheeks are burning. This was stupid. A stupid mistake. She is about to quickly pull it over, but Jurian takes her by the arm and stops her.

“Wait”, he says gently, “I`m sorry, I-“ He steps around her until he is looking her in the face“This doesn`t matter to me. Okay? You are kind and strong and beautiful and I love you more than anything else.”

Miryam smiles through the tears that are still running down her face. “I love you too”, she whispers and leans her head against his.

\----

Drakon wakes up with a pounding headache. The light is far too bright in his eyes, and he presses his face into his pillow.

“I`m never drinking again”, he mutters.

Mor and him stayed up until dawn yesterday. She had dug up a bottle of whiskey somewhere, and they kept passing it back and forth. It was the first time since the beginning of the war that Drakon did something like this, but Mor needed a distraction. Badly. In spite of his pounding headache, Drakon doesn`t regret staying up to keep her company.

Groaning, sits up in his bed and rubs his face. _Go ahead,_ he reprimands himself, _If you can get drunk at night, you can also work the next day._ He manages to get up. Bleary-eyed, he walks over to his desk, where someone already delivered the morning post. Three from various members of his council about matters regarding the governing of Erithia. Another letter with a report from the leader of his non-Seraphim army. The fifth letter, though, makes Drakon frown.

The envelope is made of thick, heavy paper. And the seal in the red vax… A blazing sun with a crown over it. Ravenia`s seal.

Every thought clears out of his head. With shaking fingers, Drakon breaks the seal and opens the letter.

_My love,_

_Ever since the regrettable end of our engagement almost five years ago, I have been hoping to have another conversation with you. Now, it seems we will finally have the chance. I will be expecting your presence in my beautiful palace within the next few days._

Yeah, right. Drakon frowns. What kind of sick game is this? He continues reading.

_Until you arrive here, I will have to entertain myself with a few of your soldiers who were kind enough to join me here, including your charming General Sinna._

Drakon nearly drops the letter. His heart misses a beat, then races on. No, no, no.

_As you know, the Black Land is famous for its hospitality. I can assure you that your soldiers will be able to attest to that once you arrive and they may leave as free people. Should you fail to arrive within the next few days, though, I am afraid your people will only be able to leave in pieces._

_I look forward to welcoming you at my palace._

_With love,_

_Queen Ravenia of the Black Land_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I`m mean, I know. I`ll have the next chapter up as soon as possible. Anyways-  
> About the ages. I know sjm never really specifies how Fae age (or rather, she gives conflicting information), so I just picked an aging system that made at least some sense to me. I'm not exactly happy with Miryam and Drakon having an age gap of seven years, but I really could see no way Fae would age the same speed as humans, so I needed him to be a bit older.  
> And in general, I`d really love to hear what you think of the way this story is going. Anything, really. Getting comments always makes my day!


	24. Chapter 24

## Chapter 24

Mor doesn`t even bother trying to sleep. After Drakon has gone to bed, she winnows back to Telique. There, she keeps walking through the palace gardens. She keeps seeing the look on Andromache`s face.

Two hours past sunrise, she finally dredges up the courage to go talk to her. Slowly, each step heavier than the last, he walks towards the corridor where the human queen has her bedchamber. A few of the guards shoot her suspicious looks, but most nod in greeting. After two years of living in the palace, most of the guards know her personally. Mor has trained with all of them quite a lot, and her friendship with Andromache is well-known.

Still, the guards directly in front of the door to Andromache`s suit shake their heads as Mor approaches. One of them slips inside, closing the door behind him. Thanks to the wards Miryam set up all through the palace, Mor can`t hear a thing that`s spoken in the room. After less than a minute, the guard slips back out.

“She won`t see you”, he says. At Mor`s crestfallen face, he winces and adds, “Sorry.”

“It`s alright”, she manages and hastily turns around.

She all but runs through the corridors. She only knows where she is heading when she has almost reached the wards` edges. At the moment, she can`t stand to stay in the palace, and there`s really one other place where she can go.

It is early enough that there are hardly any soldiers around in Jurian`s camp. Mor nods greetings to a few of them, but doesn`t stop to chat. Her first idea was to go to Miryam`s tent, but she remembers just in time that her friend doesn`t like it when people storm into her tent while she`s not fully dressed. Jurian is far less particular about such things, but his tent turns out to be empty.

Mor decides to try Drakon next, even though he`ll likely still be asleep after they both stayed up all night. Yet when she knocks on the tent`s entrance and then carefully pokes her head inside, she finds that he is not only awake, but also has company.

In spite of the early hour, both Miryam and Jurian are in the tent with him. All three of them look like they were chased straight out of bed. Drakon`s clothes are rumpled like he slept in them, Miryam wears a shirt that Mor is pretty sure belongs to Jurian, who doesn`t wear a shirt at all. They appear to be deep in argument.

“You can`t honestly be this stupid!”, Jurian shouts, “Ever heard the saying ´Never give your enemy what he wants`?”

“What`s your plan, then?”, Drakon asks. He is pacing, his wings tremble slightly.

“We`ll figure something out.”

“No, you won`t!” Drakon turns to Miryam. “You tell him, maybe he`ll believe you. Tell him it´s impossible.”

Miryam tugs on her too-big shirt, looking unhappy. She wears a cloak over it, but her bare legs (and the scars covering them) are visible. “We still have time. Let`s not make any rash decisions”, she says, “We may yet find a way. Let me-”

Drakon shakes his head. “You don`t believe this. You know it`s not possible as well as I do.” He turns to Jurian. “And you do as well. We all know, so we might as well stop pretending.”

“You have _no idea_ ”, Miryam hisses, “what she`ll do to you.”

“But I know it`s what she`ll do to my people!”, Drakon shouts. He isn`t angry, Mor realizes. He´s desperate.

Miryam and Jurian exchange a look. Neither of them seems to have noticed Mor yet.

Finally, Miryam steps forward and lightly puts a hand on Drakon`s arm. “Please”, she says, “Just let me call a meeting. We`ll find a way, you`ll see.”

Drakon stares at her for a few heartbeats. Then, he lets himself drop to the ground and presses his palms against his face. Miryam kneels down next to him.

Mor clears her throat, making Jurian spin around to the entrance, hand going to his weapons belt. (It´s just like him to forget a shirt but remember to bring his weapons.)

 _What`s wrong?_ , Mor mouthes.

Jurian takes a letter from the table and hands it to her. Mor scans the contents, then curses softly.

“Can you take me to Telique?”, Miryam asks, getting up, “I need to arrange a meeting.”

Mor nods, but eyes Miryam`s clothes. “You want to go looking like this?”

Miryam looks down at herself, as if she only now remembers that she is hardly wearing anything. “Oh.” She tugs the cloak closer around herself. “I`ll go change. Just give me a minute.” With one last worried glance at Drakon, she darts out of the room.

\----

Drakon knows the outcome of the emergency meeting long before anyone calls for a vote. He has known the outcome since he walked into the meeting room with Jurian by his side. Still, he keeps arguing.

“But we can`t just let them die”, he insists, knowing exactly how childish the words sound.

Some of the council members shoot him pitying looks. Most, however, look at him with feelings ranging somewhere between annoyance and disgust. They consider him weak, and there is little compassion for that in Continental politics.

“This is war”, one of the royals says, “Soldiers die.” A pause, then he adds, “Your Highness.”

Drakon is pretty sure there is an insult in that pause. Certainly an insult in the condescending tone. He fumbles for words, for something, _anything_ to convince them to help. But all these rules his tutors did their best to drill into his head escape him now that he`d truly need them. 

“But they don`t _have_ to die”, he tries again, “We could still save them. This is not a battle, it`s different.”

He is sure half of the council members are stifling their laughter at this point. His hands are sweaty. As subtly as he can, he wipes them off on his pants.

“Your loyalty to your people is admirable”, a female from one of the northern territories says, “But surely you must realize that any attempt to free your soldiers will only cause other deaths.”

Miryam winces ever so slightly. Drakon is sure there was an insult somewhere in there as well, he just can`t find it. And he has no idea how to reply.

“Maybe not as many”, he says. The words sound wooden even in his own ears.

“Or maybe just not _your_ people`s lives”, another royal cuts in, “And wouldn`t that be better?”

Miryam frowns slightly at the male. “This Alliance”, she says, “has been founded on a common goal and the mutual trust that goes along with it. It is what has made it possible for us to unify soldiers from different territories under one commander, trusting that all soldiers will be treated equally. Surely you did not mean to put all that into question.”

The male blushes furiously, but doesn`t reply.

Miryam turns to the audience. “I know it is a risk”, she says, “But it`s worth it. Not just because these people don`t deserve to die, but because of what it says about _us_ if we do not act.” She looks around the table. “Do we, as this Alliance, allow a thousand of our soldiers to be tortured to death? Do we cave in to the Black Land yet again? We might as well proclaim to the entire world that we are scared of Ravenia, then.” She smiles slightly. “Or do we take the chance to show everyone that the Queen of the Black Land is just as fallible as everyone else?”

A few people nod along. Drakon stares down at his fingers. _He_ should have been the one to give that speech. They are his people, for Cauldron`s sake. He should be able to do something to save them. Instead, he is useless. Worse than that – he`s a hinderance.

“I want to see Ravenia bleed as much as the next person”, Andromache says, drumming her fingers on the table, “But this is too risky. It is far more likely that we`ll lose, and lose badly.”

“I could pull it off”, Jurian says, “We`d need a proper diversion, enough troops and-“

“Thousands could die”, Helion, who is replacing his uncle in the meeting once again, cuts him off, “Thousands _would_ die even if you were to succeed.” He turns to Drakon, regret written plainly on his face. “I like you”, he says, “and I`m truly sorry about your people. On a personal level, I sympathize with your wish to save them – but as a ruler, I have to agree with Andromache on this. We cannot act.”

Drakon should say something. He has to. But everyone is staring at him like they are only waiting for him to make an even bigger fool of himself, and his voice won`t cooperate.

One of the royals – some queen or empress or lady – calls for a vote. Drakon could have told them to save themselves the trouble. They are already going to say no, anyways. The result isn`t even a close call, with less than one quarter in favour. If he`d only been a better leader, this vote might have turned out differently.

“Since we were just talking about the principles this Alliance is founded on”, Queen Nakia says, “I should probably remind everyone that council decisions are binging. Just in case anyone”, she looks from Drakon to Miryam, then to Jurian, “was considering to ignore that decision.”

Drakon doesn`t even lift his head. All he can think about are the people this council just sentenced to death. Sinna and Nephelle, two of his closest friends, the people he could always count on to support him. But also the other soldiers. He remembers talking to some of them during his last visit to the camp. One of the males mentioned how his wife was expecting their first child after two centuries of waiting. A female told him how she planned to marry in a few months. His people, the people he swore to protect.

There is only one choice he can make, really.

Someone puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on”, Jurian says gently, “Let`s get out of here.”

Drakon lets Jurian pull him to his feet. He barely notices walking out of the room, but somehow, they end up back in his tent. He sits down on his bed, Miryam and Jurian take the two chairs.

“I´ll do it, then”, he says. He is surprised by how even his voice sounds.

“Like hell!” Jurian shakes his head. “Don`t give her what she wants.”

“So I´m just supposed to let them die? My life is hardly worth a thousand deaths, Jurian.”

“You don`t even know if she`ll let them go!”

“Yes, she will”, Drakon and Miryam say simultaneously.

“That`s the deal she offered”, Miryam explains, “If Drakon goes through with it and she breaks her word, she`d be _sheké_.” She presses her lips together. “She is the leader of the most powerful territory on the Continent, but she still needs to maintain a certain image. A thousand soldiers won`t be worth losing her honour over.”

Drakon nearly sighs in relief. He hadn`t been entirely sure, but Miryam knows Ravenia better than most. If she says the queen will honour her word, then that`s what she will do.

“It´s decided, then”, he says.

But Miryam shakes her head. “Why, though?”, she asks, “Why does she even want you to surrender yourself to her?”

“I don`t know.” Drakon shrugs, bitterness creeping into his voice, “Maybe she has decided I haven`t suffered enough for refusing to marry her. Maybe this is some kind of sick game to torture me.”

“She doesn`t play like that, though”, Miryam says, “If she wanted to punish you, she`d just kill all of your soldiers and watch you fall apart over it. She`d target your people specifically, find out who you love and kill them. She enjoys breaking people slowly, bit by bit.” She begins playing with her hair. Jurian reaches out to put a hand on her arm. “But this is different. It doesn`t seem like she wants to _punish_ you, more like she wants _you_.”

Drakon snorts. “So you`re saying she`s in love with me?”

“No.” Miryam wrinkles her nose. “But there has to be a reason why she wanted to marry you in the first place.”

“It was a political match. I just happened to be the only possible person to be married off.”

Even as he says it, though, he begins to realize that it really does not make sense. Ravenia is at the very top of the Continental food chain. She could have had her pick with alliances - most of them without even having to marry - yet she chose to Erithia and him. Cauldron, she even offered her hand again after he had refused the first time.

“I don`t know”, he says softly, “It doesn`t add up.”

“No”, Miryam agrees, “It doesn`t. And that`s what worries me. Because Ravenia does nothing without reason.”

“In other words”, Jurian concludes, “don`t give her what she wants.”

Drakon runs a hand through his hair. “Could you…” He hesitates. “Could you leave me alone for a bit? I need time to think.”

Miryam exchanges a look with Jurian. “Promise that you won`t do anything stupid without talking to us in advance.”

“I promise”, Drakon says.

It doesn`t matter. Because he swore something else years ago.

He watches Miryam and Jurian leave the tent. He didn`t think he`d be this calm. He thought he`d be half mad with fear. But all he can think about are the thousand people who don`t deserve to die.

He walks over to his desk, takes an empty piece of paper and begins writing. One letter to his council, giving instructions. He only wishes he could have gotten his political system to run more smoothly. One to Sinna, who`ll have to step in to lead his people – at least until they can find a way to get his political system to work without a royal to leat it. The third to Miryam and Jurian, with a brief explanation of what he did.

He leaves the letters on the table and walks out of the tent.

\----

_Dear Miryam, dear Jurian,_

_I know that I gave you both my word not to go through with this. But I also swore to protect my people, and that oath weighs far heavier. I will not beg forgiveness for what I´m about to do, but I do apologize for lying. Still, I believe we all know that you both would have done the same._

_This is a poor goodbye, I know. Still, believe me that I`m glad to have met you both, and that it was an honour to call you my friends. If there are any two people I trust to win this, it`s the two of you._

_I wish you the best of luck. Your friend,_

_Drakon_

“We should have tied him to a chair”, Jurian mutters.

Miryam doesn`t reply. She curls her hand to a fist, crumbling the letter as she does. He`ll be there by now. Maybe he`s already in the dungeons. Damnit, how could he be so stupid? (Even though, deep down, she knows that she would have made the same call.)

“I can winnow to Telique”, Mor suggests.

“They didn`t order a mission for a thousand soldiers”, Miryam says, “They won`t do it for one.”

It is hard to breath. She knows what they`ll do to him. She has seen it countless times. Whatever it is Ravenia wants, she´ll get it eventually. She always does. Miryam presses her lips into a thin line. That brave, noble fool.

“But it must be easier to break out one man than a thousand”, Jurian argues, “If we stage a diversion, then sneak in a small group of soldiers -“

“Forget it”, Tia says from where she`s leaning against the desk, “There´s no breaking into Ravenia`s dungeons, everyone knows it.”

Miryam nods. She`s been to those dungeons. Unbidden, the memories rise – blood everywhere, screams so loud she thought her ears would shatter. She pushes them back down.

“Well, we`ll just figure something out”, Mor says.

Jurian nods his agreement. “No place is without weaknesses. We have thousands of soldiers, for Cauldron`s sake. There has to be a way.” He runs his fingers over the hilt of his sword, as if he`s already imagining drawing it in battle. “This time, we come up with a plan first, then present it to the council. Makes them more likely to agree.”

“No”, Miryam says.

Everyone in the room turns to her. “What?”, Mor asks.

“We aren`t getting in there, not even with ten thousand soldiers. It is too well-protected. No matter how much we plan, we`ll never be able to pull this off. And if we tell the council, they`ll only forbid us from acting again.”

“So we`re just supposed to let him die.” The look Jurian gives her is bordering reproach.

Mor frowns at her, seemingly torn between disbelief and anger, Tia just seems confused.

“Not what I said.” Miryam doesn`t know how she manages to sound so calm. Some part of her is panicking, screaming at her not to do this. But it seems distant, somehow. “I said we can`t get in with an army. I`d take it even further and say that no Fae, no matter how brilliant, will be able to breach Ravenia`s palace.” She turns to Jurian. “But we might be able to pull it off. Not with an army – just you any I.” She manages a humourless smile. “After all, I can tell you from personal experience that no Fae pays much attention to his slaves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just another (worse) cliffhanger, I know. In my defense, this arc is a bit longer, so I really can't split it up anywhere without causing cliffhangers.  
> Anyways, huge thanks to anyone reading this! Your kudos and comments always make my day❤


	25. Chapter 25

## Chapter 25

Drakon had expected to be chained up and taken straight to the dungeon. Instead, the guards at the gates of Lako, the Black Land`s capital, treat him almost politely. They take his weapons, but they don`t even tie his hands as they lead him into the palace. His second though is that Ravenia will have him brought to the throne room to show him off to her court. He supposes it would be a sign of power to her to torment him publically.

His stomach clenches, his palms are wet with sweat. He shoots a look at the five guards who are trailing him. All of them are stone-faced.

They don`t take him to the throne room. Instead, they lead him into a huge dining room. Walls, ceiling and floor are covered in colourful mosaics. One side of the room is left open, overlooking the city. Drakon barely spares more than half a glance to the city sprawled below before he turns his attention to the table in the room`s centre. The entire table is full of plates upon plates of all kinds of food.

Ravenia sits at the head of the table. Two humans, a boy and a girl, stand behind her, fanning her with palm leaves. Five other human slaves stand a bit further back, heads bowed. They all wear slips of clothing that do little to cover the scars all over their bodies. Drakon feels sick.

Ravenia looks exactly as he remembers. She wears one of her favoured white dresses, adorned with golden embroidery. It offsets her brown skin, a few shades lighter than Drakon`s. A crown is glinting in her dark hair and her arms are covered in bracelets.

As one, the guards bow to the waist. Drakon remains standing rigid in the doorway.

Ravenia clicks her tongue at his lack of curtesy, but Drakon doesn`t react. He had not expected the surge of fury that shoots through him at her sight. This is the female who murdered his family, who did such unspeakable things to thousands of people. Drakon never hated a person before, but standing here, he realizes that he hates her.

“Where are my people?”, he asks. He doesn`t even make an effort to sound polite.

“Not here”, Ravenia replies evenly.

“I want to see them.”

She waves a dismissive hand at him. Her gold bracelets clink against each other. “They`ll be released immediately. I can assure you that they will leave my territory unharmed.” When Drakon still hesitates, she shakes her head at him. “You have my word. And surely you know that I have never broken it, love.”

Drakon clenches his hands to fists at that name. _Love_. He`s sure she said it only to get a rise out of him, because she must know exactly how she makes him feel.

“Alright”, he says as calmly as he can.

“You really are impolite.” Ravenia takes a date from one of the bowls and takes a graceful bite. “I would have thought that you would have learned at least some manners in the last years.”

“You murdered my family, kidnapped my people. I`m here as your _prisoner_.”

“Now, there´s no need to be harsh.” She dips her chin towards the chair opposite from her. “Why don`t you sit down? We can discuss business over dinner.” When Drakon still doesn`t move, she adds, “There`s really no need to make matters uncomfortable.”

One of the slaves, aa human girl no older than fourteen, darts forward to pull back a chair for him, curtsying as she does. Her left hand is missing two fingers. Drakon wants to scream at the sight. He wants to hurl those beautiful plates at Ravenia`s head and ask her _how she could do this_. Instead, he forces himself to sit down. Another slave – a boy, barely older than the girl – pours him a glass of wine.

“What do you want from me?”, he asks.

“Just eat your dinner”, Ravenia says, “The stuffed vine leaves are particularly delicious.”

For a heartbeat, Drakon debates asking her to just stop the games and take him straight to the dungeons. That`s where he`ll end up anyways. But the words won`t leave his mouth. Maybe he`s more scared of what`s going to happen next than he thought. He hates himself for playing by Ravenia`s rules, but he still puts some food on his plate. Nnot the stuffed vine leaves, though.

Ravenia eats like she doesn`t have a care in the world. Drakon manages a few bites, but his stomach is already twisting. Instead, he turns to the open side of the dining room. A light wind is blowing in through the huge windows. The sandstone buildings of the city below glow in the setting sun. From up here, it truly does look like the most beautiful city in the world with its towering palaces and temples. But it`s only because they are so high up that they cannot see the suffering of the humans below.

Drakon never understood how such beauty and terror can exist in the same place. How can a territory that is known throughout the world for its universities and libraries be so wilfully cruel to an entire group of people? How is it possible that a place that is called the Continent`s heart, its centre of art and learning, is built on the suffering of thousands.

Drakon turns around to the female who rules over all of this. And suddenly, he finds that he doesn`t care if she considers him to be a fool for not knowing the rules of the games she likes to play. What she thinks of him only matters if he allows it to, and right now, he finds he doesn`t care at all.

“You could end all of this, you know.” He doesn`t know what he is trying to accomplish here. Maybe he is still the same naïve boy as five years ago, but he just can`t help himself. “This war, all this death – it could all end, if you only freed your slaves.”

“I am aware.”

Drakon blinks. “Then why don`t you?”

“If I freed my slaves, then who would work the fields? Who would build roads and houses and palaces, who would cook and serve the dinner?”

“Fae are entirely capable of working, you know.”

“Ah, but we aren`t made for it.” Ravenia leans back in her seat. “The Mother granted us magic. We are created to rule. They…” She shrugs and jerks her shin towards her shivering child-slaves. “They are made to serve. It is their entire purpose in life. If they were not, then why would they not receive magic, or at least longer lives.”

“We Seraphim believe that the Mother loves diversity. It is why she created thousands of different species, each with their own traits, to inhabit her world. Each one can teach us a lesson about life.” Drakon lifts his chin. “You consider humans to be beneath you”, he says, “but I think they know many things they don`t. They live shorter lives, but they also live much more intensely then we do. They may not have magic, but that has only made them resourceful.”

“I have birds in my garden”, Ravenia says, “that sing more beautifully than any Fae. Yet, I still don`t treat them as equals.”

“Surely you see that this comparison isn`t fitting”, Drakon says. If only he could convince her… “Humans are like us. They experience love and hate, happiness and grief same as we do. They are no less intelligent than we are. I have read texts that give undeniable proof that they are not lesser than us in any regard but the physical.”

“They may be intelligent animals, but they are animals none the less. They don`t have a _soul,_ and nothing you say may change that.”

“The idea that magicless beings are also soulless is taken from a text that is widely disputed and has been largely disproven. The author was, quite frankly, a madman.” He gives Ravenia a hard look. “You have no justification whatsoever for enslaving them.”

Ravenia leans forward on the table. “I am over nine hundred years old”, she says, “You are not even thirty yet. Do you really think you can tell me anything about the world that I don`t know yet?” She huffs a laugh. “Has it not even occurred to you that it is far more likely that you are wrong and I am right than the opposite?”

Drakon hesitates. If he was talking to anyone else, he`d duck his head and give in at this point, but he refuses to let Ravenia win.

“No”, he says softly, “I think that you are wrong. But I think that being wrong is so comfortable for you that you refuse to recognize it, no matter what the cost may be.”

Ravenia shakes her head, then she returns to her food like he isn`t even worth a reply. “Eat your food, your Highness”, she says.

Drakon crosses his arms and doesn`t touch his fork. They sit in uncomfortable silence for several minutes. Ravenia drains her wine glass, and the human boy steps forward to refill it. As he does, a drop of wine spills and lands on the white blanket. Flames flicker to life around Ravenia`s fingers, shooting out towards the boy.

“Don`t!”, Drakon shouts and jumps to his feet.

The guards waiting by the walls step forward, hands on their weapons, but Ravenia waves them off. She studies Drakon, her flames hovering an inch away from the trembling boy.

“Sit down”, she says, “Eat your dinner. Stop being difficult.”

Drakon does as she says. He still feels sick, but he takes a bite from a piece of bread. The flames in Ravenia`s hands die out. The boy sags with relief. Drakon does, too.

“You`re cute, you know?”, Ravenia says, “A bit like a puppy.” She gives him a small smile. “Most people like puppies. However, nobody would put one in charge of a country.”

Drakon tries and fails not to let the insult get to him. He takes a sip from his wine in an attempt to cover his emotions. “What do you want from me, then?”

“I want to marry you, of course.”

Drakon chokes on his wine and begins to cough violently. “What?”, he manages.

“I said I want to marry you. Surely you are not stupid enough not to understand what this means.”

“But… this is completely ridiculous!” Drakon shakes his head softly. “You slaughtered my entire family! And…” He can`t stop shaking his head. “Your empire is built on the suffering of thousands, you… You`re a horrible person. I´m not going to marry you – I _hate_ you!”

He expected Ravenia to react with anger, but she just smiles ever so slightly. “Glad that we have this out of the way”, she says, “And while we`re at the business of exchanging compliments: I think you are a naïve idiot. Some may find that trait endearing, but I certainly don`t. And to make matters worse, you are quite possibly the most incompetent person to ever have had the misfortune of being put in charge of a medium-sized country.”

Drakon gapes at her.

Ravenia laughs. This time, she seems genuinely amused. “What? You thought I had fallen in love with you?” She shakes her head and waves at the boy to refill her wine glass. “I`m the leader of the most powerful territory on the entire Continent. I could have anyone I want. And you think out of all these people, I`d choose you – a stupid, annoying _child_?”

Drakon hates her. He hates her for what she did, sure, but also for the way she manages to make him feel small. With just a few words, she reduces him to a cowering child and he _hates_ it.

“This is a political marriage”, Ravenia says, not a hint of laughter left in her voice, “It isn`t about love. It`s about what`s to be gained for both of us.”

Drakon watches her closely. He thinks back to his conversation with Miryam. If Ravenia wanted to expand her territory through marriage, she would not choose Erithia.

“No”, he says softly, “This is not what this is`s about. You don`t need my territory that desperately.”

“Who said anything about your territory?”, Ravenia asks, “It`s a nice bonus, I guess, but that`s not what this is about.” She leans forward. “No. But I happen to know that there is a certain place you can only access if you are a member of the Erithian royal family. An island, if I`m not mistaken.”

Drakon freezes. No. No, she cannot know. This is a secret, how would she-

“The legendary Cretea. I can assure you, it wasn`t easy to find any information about it – it took me almost five centuries to get what I needed. But I suppose it has been well worth it.” Her smile turns hungry. “Tell me, is the Sword of Daín truly as magnificent as the stories say?”

Drakon finally manages to get a grip on himself. “I don`t know what you are talking about. Cretea is a legend, as is the Sword of Daín. Surely the Queen of the Black Land does not believe in children`s stories.”

“Don`t bother.” Ravenia takes another date from the bowl. “I already know the truth.” True excitement lights her eyes. “They say that the sword makes you invincible. They say a person who wields it can never be defeated in battle, that it enhances your natural power. Did you know that they call this blade _God-Maker_?”

For a few heartbeats, Drakon just stares at her. He hears what she`s saying, but he can`t believe it. She can`t truly be _that_ stupid.

“I knew you were arrogant”, he says, “But I didn`t know you`re also stupid. This blade cannot be used. It is a weapon made for _gods_. It destroys any mortal who tries to wield it.”

“I`m not mortal. And I don`t need your advice, I just need you to marry me.”

She`s completely serious.

“So, to summarize”, Drakon says softly, “You – the person who is responsible for thousands of deaths, including that of my entire family – want to marry me. In doing so, you would not only become the ruler of Erithia, meaning I´d put a monster in charge of my people. No, you also want to use the sacred artifact my family kept hidden for millennia. And as soon as we´re married, you`ll probably kill me.” He crosses his arms. “That`s a horrible deal.”

“Oh, relax. I´m not going to kill you. I only kill Fae when they get in my way.” Ravenia leans back in her seat again and takes a sip from her wine. “You`ll get to live the rest of your life in a nice little palace of your own, surrounded by servants and guards. That way, you can play around with your books as much as you want. You can pretend that your slaves are your equals, if it`s what you feel like. I´m sure I can even find you a pretty half-breed somewhere, since rumour has it you like those.”

In other words, a golden cage. Though Drakon supposes that it does say quite a lot about Ravenia that out of all the concerns he mentioned, she choose to focus on the least important one.

“I feel like you missed my main point”, Drakon says, “Let me paraphrase: I`m not marrying you. And since I need to agree for the arrangement to be legally binding, you cannot force me.”

“How valiant.” Ravenia waves a hand to her guards. Drakon flinches as they grab him by the arms and pull him to his feet. “I`ll give you an hour at most until you`ll beg me to marry you, just to make it stop.”

\----

A day after Miryam suggested her plan to the others, she is still strangely calm. The rational part of her mind knows that this is some kind of coping mechanism - her mind shutting down to protect itself from all the things she should be feeling. She just hopes it will last until she has done what needs to be done. She can break down later. For now, she still needs to function.

Standing alone in her tent, Miryam runs her fingers over the fabric of the thin tunic that is lying on her bed. It is little more than a slip of cloth, really. She tries to tell herself that at least it`s not a dress – after all, they won`t be posing as palace slaves right away – but it barely covers her body. She hasn`t worn anything this revealing in years. The very thought of putting it on should be enough to make her freak out, but still, she feels nothing.

With precise, mechanical movements, Miryam slips out of her long tunic and pulls the cloth over. Carefully, she arranges her hair, the adds a few hidden pins to keep it in place over her slightly arched ears. She is just searching through her herbs, looking for one that will mask her scent, when the tent's entrance flaps open.

Mor gasps softly and stops dead in the entrance. Miryam ignores the look of horror on her friend's face, the way she stares at her scars, and keeps her attention on her work.

"Did you meet with Sinna?", she asks.

Mor seems to snap out of her shock. "Yes. She and the other soldiers were dumped at the border of the Black Land. They're pretty beat up, but alive. I had the pleasure of being the one to tell her what her Prince did to save her and the others." She winces slightly. "She nearly bit my head off. I swear, I've never seen anyone this furious."

"She must be worried sick", Miryam says. For all her sharp comments, Sinna clearly cares deeply for Drakon. "What did she say about our plan?"

"She said that you are, and I quote _, both the bravest and most stupid person she's ever met_ , and you'll likely be dead within a few days. She also insisted to come, but she broke her leg during the battle and Nephelle convinced her that she`d be no use that way."

Miryam nods. She's inclined to share Sinna's assessment, but is not about to say as much. "I've been thinking", she says instead, "that perhaps I should ask one of Drakon's soldiers to winnow us."

She finds what she was looking for and opens the tin. Carefully, she begins rubbing the salve on her body.

"Why?", Mor asks. Barely concealed hurt makes her voice shake.

"If your uncle finds out that you helped us", Miryam says softly. "I have no control over how he'll react. One of the Seraphim would stand less to lose. They would not need to fear punishment."

"I want to help, though", Mor says, "Besides, you'd have a hard time finding anyone powerful enough to winnow you all the way to the Black Land."

Miryam nods. "So, you and Drakon...", she trails off. She'd been meaning to ask about what happened on Mor's birthday for quite some time already, but with all that`s been going on, she hasn't gotten the chance.

Mor turns bright red. "No." She shakes her head. "My birthday... I was drunk. It didn't mean - I mean, we didn't even do anything. I'm not interested, and neither is he. I..."

"Wanted to make Andromache jealous?", Miryam suggests with a wink.

Mor's face turns from bright red to snow white in the span of a heartbeat.

"I...", she stutters, "No, I... why would you think..."

"I'm not blind, Mor. I see the way you look at her - and she at you." Miryam meant to sound reassuring, but Mor only pales further.

Frantically, she shakes her head. "No, you can't... It's not... Please don't tell anyone!" She looks like she's about to burst into tears.

Miryam has no idea what is going on, but clearly, she made some kind of mistake. "I'm sorry", she says, even though she's not entirely sure what she's apologizing for. She walks over to Mor and pulls her into a hug. "It's okay", she whispers, "I won't tell anyone, I promise."

Mor is shaking, and Miryam begins to gently rub her back. "I'm sorry", she repeats. "I didn't know this was secret."

Mor is silent for a bit. Slowly, her shaking ceases. "You truly don't mind?", she asks, voice trembling.

"Of course not. Andromache is great, why would I...", Miryam trails off.

Back when she was first sent to Prythian, she read up on the island and its rules. Now, she remembers some courts in Prythian have rules that regulate what kinds of relationships they allow.

"Is it forbidden? In the Night Court, I mean. It's forbidden for two females to be in love."

"Not everywhere", Mor whispers, "but the Hewn City... My parents... If they knew, they would..." She takes a shuddering breath.

Miryam has to swallow her anger. She knows her getting angry won't help Mor, but Cauldron damnit, she really hates Prythian. She can't think of a single Continental territory that regulates who people are allowed to love.

"It's different here", Miryam says, "No one will think anything of it. I certainly don't. If anything, I'm happy for you."

Mor is silent for a moment, but she hugs Miryam so tightly that she is almost worried her rips might snap. Finally, she whispers, "Thank you."

Before Miryam can think of something else to say, the tent's entrance flaps open and Jurian enters. Like Miryam, he is dressed in light closes - his are made of linen, barely more than rags, really.

"Oh", he says.

Mor hastily lets go of Miryam and takes a step back, wiping her eyes. "I'll go wait outside", she says and hastily pushes past Jurian and out of the tent.

He turns to Miryam, frowning. "What was that about?"

"Private stuff."

Jurian nods and scans her from head to toe. His eyes linger on the bruise on her cheek. He frowns, but doesn't say anything. Miryam knows he doesn't exactly agree with this part of her disguise. But Miryam has lived in Ravenia's palace for three years, and even if Fae don't generally look at human slaves, they might know her face well enough to recognize her. So Miryam had to make herself less recognizable, and a bruise covering most of her face is the easiest way to do that. (Of course, getting that bruise involved asking Tia to punch her, after both Jurian and Mor outright refused.)

Miryam turns around to Jurian. "Do I look human enough?", she asks.

He nods. "And do I look like a slave?"

No, he doesn`t. He looks like a free man dressed in rags.

"Slump your shoulders more", she says, then reaches out and pulls the hidden knife out of his rags. "And this", she adds, dropping it to the ground, "remains here. If you try to smuggle in a weapon, we'll be stopped at the first gate already."

"If you say so", Jurian mutters. Still, he seems hesitant as he pulls a second knife out of his sandal and drops it to the ground.

Miryam turns back to her shelf and takes out a small tin. Inside, there are a few pastils. She takes out one and holds it out to Jurian. He arches an eyebrow in question.

"Provisions?"

Miryam shakes her head. She`s not sure if she can speak around the lump in her throat. This is her plan, her responsibility, and the option she is now offering Jurian is far more likely than she'd like.

"If things go badly", she manages, "if there is no way out..." She takes a deep breath. "It's your choice, of course. But I'm not letting them take me alive."

Their eyes meet. Jurian doesn't say anything, but she can see the understanding in his eyes. They've both fought in this war long enough to understand this decision without needing to talk about it. Slowly, he takes the pastil and hides it in his thin clothes. Miryam pockets her own.

"I love you", she says. 

Jurian gently takes her hand. "We'll survive this", he says, "but if we don't, I want you to know that I still won't regret a thing."

Miryam manages a smile. "Me neither."

At that moment, the entrance bursts open and Tia storms in. Miryam and Jurian jump apart, he swears. Mor enters after Tia, red in the face.

“I told her”, she says, “I told her not to go inside.”

“And I told her”, Tia replies, eyes jumping between Miryam and Jurian, “that we`re on a schedule and that doesn`t include the two of you flirting.” She gives them a humourless smile. “Not saying I can`t understand. Might be your last chance, after all.”

“Don`t _say_ something like this”, Mor hisses.

“Why not? If they have a death-wish, they needn`t go all the way to the Black Land to die.”

Jurian gives his second a flat look. “It`s a reasonable plan”, he says, “It will work.”

“Reasonable?” Tia glares right back at him. “It will work only _if_ that shitty slave-disguise works and you both aren`t caught within seconds. _If_ Miryam can get you past the wards and into the palace, _if_ you make it to the dungeons. _If_ Drakon is even there. _If_ Miryam manages to disable the wards, _if_ Drakon`s in any state to winnow the three of you out.” She crosses her arms. “A bit to many ifs, don`t you think?”

Miryam lowers her eyes. Tia is right – her plan has more holes than a sieve. It would take a minor miracle for them to succeed.

“Do you have a better idea?”, Jurian asks sharply.

Tia sighs. The annoyance fades from her face and she suddenly looks tired as she leans against Miryam`s worktable. “I like him, too, you know?”, she says softly, “I hate this situation as much as you do. But Drakon made a _choice_ when he went to the Black Land. Don`t you think he knew the consequences?”

Miryam taps her foot on the ground. “So we`re just supposed to let him die? Let Ravenia torture him to death?”

“Yes.” Tia looks between her and Jurian. “And I say that knowing that I look like a heartless monster now. But…” She snorts softly. “If there was a way to save him, I`d do it. I wouldn`t even hesitate. But there isn`t one and all you`re going to accomplish is getting more people killed. Yourself included. Do you think that`s what Drakon would want?”

_No_. Miryam presses her lips together. What if this plan of hers fails? What if it gets Jurian killed? She hasn`t allowed herself to doubt her strategy so far, but now, for the first time, she wavers.

Jurian doesn`t. “Probably not”, he says, “But I know I`d rather die than live knowing I left one of my friends to die.” He turns to Miryam. “Ready if you are.”

Miryam isn`t ready. Not at all. Still, she nods. “Let`s go.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is a bit darker than usual. I don't think I write anything that's worse than the things that happen in the original books, but I still thought I'd put a warning here. The second paragraph contains mentions of torture (no descriptions, though), and there is.... sexual harassment, I guess?

## Chapter 26

The first thing Jurian notices is the heat. It presses against his skin like a blanket. The sunlight is so bright that he has to squeeze his eyes shut, and the sun burns down on him with scorching intensity. Jurian is immediately soaked in sweat.

“Good luck”, Mor says. She lets go of his arm, and before Jurian can reply, she has winnowed away, leaving them alone in the desert.

“Let`s go”, Miryam says. She doesn`t seem to be fazed at all by the heat. “We need to reach the oasis before sunset.”

“Is it always this warm here?”, Jurian asks.

“In the desert”, Miryam says, “In Lako itself, it`s a bit cooler and the river delta is usually quite mild as well.”

She begins walking. Jurian follows suit. As they walk, he watches Miryam from the side of his eye. There is a tension in her stance, but otherwise, she is far calmer than he would have thought. It worries Jurian more than her being panicked would have. He has seen enough soldiers reacting to horrible experiences to know that there is always some kind of backlash – and the longer someone delays it, the harder it usually is. He can just hope that Miryam will last until after they finish this mission.

“Jur”, Miryam says, startling him out of his thoughts, “You have to promise me that you won`t pick any fights.”

“What?”

“You _cannot_ start anything with the Fae.” Miryam turns around to face him. “No matter what you see, no matter how they speak to you, you keep your head down. You can show fear, but never anger. If they sense any defiance, they`ll make you pay.”

“Alright”, Jurian says, but Miryam still grabs him by the arm.

“If anything happens, I won`t be able to help you. And if we get separated, you will be done for – without me, you won`t even be able to move through the wards in the palace.”

“I know, Miryam.” Jurian does his best to sound reassuring. “I don`t have a death wish.”

She nods. “You keep your head down”, she repeats, “Never look them in the eye. Only speak if spoken to, address them with ´Master` or ´Mistress`.” She frowns at Jurian. “And don`t walk so straight, for Cauldron`s sake. Shoulders down. Act like you want to disappear, or you`ll wish you could.”

Jurian does the only reasonable thing in this situation and follows her instructions without arguing. He has to adjust his posture five times until Miryam is satisfied. They continue walking for what seems like an eternity. Jurian feels like his head is swollen to about twice its normal size from the sun, his throat is parched and his feet are burning. The wind keeps blowing sand in his face, the damned stuff gets everywhere and _itches_. He decides he really, truly hates the desert.

Finally, sand begins to give way to grass and a city appears in the distance. Sand-stone buildings glow golden in the light of the setting sun, roofs covered in gold glint so brightly it hurts Jurian`s eyes. Miryam watches the sight with an unreadable expression.

“Getting into the city should be the easiest part”, she says, “They monitor slaves who want to leave the city closely, but rarely bother with the ones who want to get in.” A ghost of a smile flickers over her face. “After all, no human in their right mind would ever enter this place willingly.”

Jurian grins, even as the sheer madness of what they`re about to do yawns up in front of him. Miryam has a point, he supposes. They really are crazy.

The area soon becomes more populated. Jurian does his best to mirror Miryam`s stance – head lowered, shoulders slumped – as they pass the first Fae. They are all clad in richly coloured clothes and barely spare more than a passing gaze for the humans. Most of them are trailed by human slaves. They are clearly marked by the brands on their arms, their thin bodies and the empty looks in their eyes. Rage coils tightly in Jurian`s stomach.

Soon, dry grass gives way to rich grain fields that are watered by small canals. Workers are busy harvesting it. Most of them wear light clothes, they have no protection against the sun. Humans, all of them. Only a few Fae are around. Overseers, with leashes in their hands. In this moment, Jurian would have traded just about anything for a sword.

He forces himself to look away. If he keeps staring, he won`t be able to keep his anger contained, and then he`ll get them both killed. He has to focus on their mission.

“Won`t they be suspicious?”, he whispers, “If we show up unsupervised.”

“Probably not.” She inclines her head to an old human man walking in the opposite direction. “Unaccompanied slaves outside of the city are somewhat uncommon, but not impossible.”

“Why don`t they run?” Jurian had always assumed that human slaves were kept under guard at all hours.

“They have hounds that can track your scent. And when they catch you – and they always do…” Miryam shakes her head. A shadow passes over her face.

Jurian decides he really doesn`t want to know what happens to the ones who are get trying to flee. “How did you manage to escape?”, he asks instead.

“Drakon winnowed me into the middle of the desert, almost up until the border. Made it hard to track me.”

Jurian nods. They are almost at the gate now and he doesn`t dare ask another question. You never know what these Fae bastards hear with their pointy ears. Remaining half a step behind Miryam, he goes to wait in the line before that city gates. A few Fae cut the line. Jurian clenches his hand to a fist, but says nothing.

There are two guards at the gate. High Fae, both of them. Indeed, they wave the slaves before them through with hardly more than half a glance at their brands. Jurian nearly sighs with relief. They did their best to replicate a proper brand for him, but Miryam warned him that it won`t hold up to closer inspection.

The guards wave Jurian and Miryam through. They are almost past the guards when one of them reaches out and grabs Miryam by the arm. She freezes, ducking her head. Jurian can`t tell if she`s faking her fear or not.

“You`re a pretty one, aren`t you?”, the guard drawls. He runs a hand through her hair. Jurian thinks it`s a good thing he doesn`t have a weapon on him – otherwise, he doesn`t think he could have stopped himself from making sure that Fae bastard won`t ever be able to use his hand again.

“For human thrash, that is”, the male continues. He laughs. “Only you`re a bit to clean.” He lifts up a hand of dirt from the ground and throws it in her face, laughing as he does. “There you go”, he says, “much better.” He gives her a shove that sends her flying into the dirt.

Jurian stares at the male. He wants to do something. He hates that he is caught here, unable to act. But he promised to play along, so he just pulls Miryam to her feet and follows her down the street.

“Are you okay?”, he whispers.

Miryam gives him a curt nod. Her face is so closed off that even he can`t read her now.

“Let`s go”, she says softly.

They walk through the streets slowly. Miryam keeps nudging Jurian to the side whenever Fae come too close to them on the sidewalk. Otherwise, she keeps her eyes trained on the road. Jurian looks around. Even when it makes his stomach twist and turn, he forces himself to keep watching.

Others might have called this city beautiful. But all Jurian can see is the horror. Human children who are little more than skin and bones sneaking through the streets, flinching every time someone so much as looks at them. Men and women dressed in rags. Open wounds and bruises – some fresh, some almost healed. Here, Miryam`s scars don`t stand out, they are the norm. From time to time, a scream rings out over the city`s noise, or the crack of a whip can be heard.

Before today, Jurian has never seen a slave in his life. He fought against slavery, but he has never actually seen it practiced. Now, he makes himself watch. He forces himself to witness the horrors that happen here – if only because no one else seems to see.

He only notices the palace when they are almost at the front gates. What finally makes him look up in the end is Miryam tensing besides him.

The palace is stunning. Bigger than any building Jurian has ever seen and so high he has to tilt his head backwards to see the highest tower. The roofs are lined with gold, huge windows open to all sides like they want to let in any bit of wind. Just standing here makes Jurian feel small, inconsequential. Which, in turn, makes him angry.

He turns to Miryam, who is also staring up at the palace. “All good?”, he asks.

She nods tightly. “Let`s do this.”

\----

In the stories Drakon used to read as a boy, the heroes always reacted with either defiant aloofness or sharp, witty comments to whatever their enemies did to them. No matter how horrible it was.

Drakon _tried_. At first, he wanted to stay aloof, wanted to keep from screaming. But once the masked Fae male began his work, he didn`t even last for a minute. And he certainly couldn`t manage any witty remarks – all he could do was scream. So either these stories are complete and utter bullshit, or he is just a very poor excuse of a hero.

He doesn`t know how long it`s been. A day or a week or a year. His throat is sore from screaming and everything _hurts_. He had no idea anything could hurt that much.

He just wants it to stop. But it doesn`t, and he wishes he could just close his eyes and die. But when Ravenia appears in his cell and asks if he`s reconsidering already he shakes his head.

And so the pain continues.

\----

Miryam has always known that Lako was well-protected. But when she left the city, she didn`t have her abilities yet, she couldn`t see the wards. Now, a net of colourful strings stretches out all over the city and the palace, at some places in multiple layers.

She spent the entire walk only half in her body. Most of her focus was on the wards. She shifted through the layers, identifying strings with practiced ease. Prodding, looking for a hole in the defences. I helped keep her from panicking.

By the time they reach the palace, Miryam has located the section of the wards that keeps people from winnowing in and out. She is almost entirely certain that she`ll be able to disable it. The wards are good, but like most protective enchantments, they weren`t created to keep witches out. As long as her magic doesn`t decide to throw a temper tantrum now of all times, they should be fine.

The wards around the palace are a different matter, though. Miryam will be able to get in, no problem at all. The brand on her arm acts as a key, allowing her to move through the palace almost at will. But Jurian`s brand is a fake, so if he wants to enter the palace, Miryam will have to disable the wards and time it perfectly, or they will both be caught.

“Okay”, Miryam whispers, “The entrance is to the left. Remember, we both work in the kitchen and were out on an errand for the cook. In case anyone asks.”

The story shouldn`t be anything out of ordinary. She herself never left the palace alone – Ravenia didn`t allow her personal slaves out of sight – but the kitchen slaves told her that the cook sometimes sends them into the city to fetch ingredients for special meals. Miryam hopes that the guards won`t ask, though. Like those at the gates, they rarely spare more than a glance for humans.

“It will all work out”, she whispers more to herself than to Jurian. He gives her arm a gentle squeeze.

They don`t enter through the main gate – using that is punishable by death for slaves. Instead, Miryam leads Jurian to a smaller gate be the side. He looks up and gasps, stumbling a step. Miryam doesn`t really need to lift her head to see what he`s so shocked about.

Two corpses hang over the gate in cages. Only two, that is unusual. Crows are flocking around the cages like big, black flies and Miryam quickly looks away. She has seen far too many mutilated corpses already. There`s no need to add another image to her nightmares.

“Come on”, she whispers to Jurian and nudges him in the side.

Slowly, he tears his gaze away from the dead humans above the gate. When he looks at Miryam, his eyes are burning with fury. She swallows, wishing she had the words to comfort him, but from the look in Jurian`s eyes, the only comfort he`s interested in is revenge. She just hopes he`ll wait until they are back in their own camp to take it.

Fortunately, the guards at the gate didn`t notice their exchange. There are two of them, both High Fae, leaning lazily against the wall. If their superiors noticed them slacking off like this, they`d likely get whipped, but the day has been hot and now, in the evening, everyone feels lazy.

With faltering steps, Miryam walks towards the gate. She keeps her eyes on the ground, but her attention is fixed on the wards glittering behind the guards. She`ll need to time her action precisely. She has to open a hole long enough for Jurian to get through, but not long enough to raise any alarms.

The guards only seem to notice them when Miryam stops in front of them. She ducks her head a bit deeper and stares down at her feet. Fortunately, she doesn`t need to see the wards to work on them.

“More human worms.” One of the guards groans. “We just let three of your kind through a few minutes ago. Don`t you know we have better things to do than play portier for trash like you?”

Jurian tenses. Anger seems to radiate off him in waves. Miryam does her best to look scared and compliant for both of them.

“Forgive me, Master”, she whispers, adding a quiver to her voice for good measure.

The Fae male laughs. “That´s the way I like it. Now beg and I`ll consider letting you in.”

“Please, Master”, Miryam says obediently.

“They should kneel”, the other guard, this one female, suggests. “After all, that`s all their kind is good for.”

Miryam suppresses a sigh. There was a time when these people would have had her frozen in fear, but now, they just disgust her. Bored guards, dissatisfied with their own lives and drunk on the feeling of power making others miserable gives them. She goes to her knees and bows her head.

Jurian doesn`t.

For a few heartbeats, the world stands still. Miryam silently curses Jurian for his stupid pride that is going to get them both killed. Doesn`t he know that the best way to deal with bullies like this is to do what they want until they leave you alone? Fighting back only ever makes it worse.

A crack sounds through the air. Jurian lands next to Miryam on the ground. She dares a look to the side. Blood drips from his nose into the dirt.

“There, much better”, one of the guards drawls. He pulls open the door. “Off you go.”

Miryam scrambles to her feet. As she does, she sends her power darting for the wards, twisting the strings aside to make a doorway. It`s harder without saying the words, but Miryam is practised enough by now to manage just fine. She steps through the wards first. The brand at her arm warms uncomfortably as she does. Jurian follows close after her.

No alarms. No movements in the wards. Miryam nearly sighs in relief as she lets the strings snap back into place and shoves Jurian into one of the hidden servant corridors.

“Are you okay?”, she asks.

She glances around the corridor to check if they are alone, then turns back to Jurian. Blood is gushing out of his nose. It`s clearly broken. Miryam`s hand darts forward and with one quick twists, she puts it back into position.

Jurian lets out a string of very creative curse words and presses both hands to his face. “Ouch.”

“Is that your idea of keeping your head down?”, Miryam hisses.

His eyes flash. “You think I`m going to kneel for –“

“So you can fight and die and kill for out cause, but kneeling is where you draw the line? You could have gotten both of us killed, and for what? You may be ready to die for your pride, but I am not!”

They stare at each other. Jurian is the first to look away. He wipes the mud off his face and lowers his head.

“Sorry”, he mutters.

Miryam sighs. She already regrets her sharp words. Jurian grew up fighting Fae. Defiance is as natural to him as being compliant is to her. If anything, she`s the one to blame for even taking him with her. This palace is a death-trap and Jurian isn`t equipped to survive it at all.

“I`m sorry, too.” She rubs her hands over her face. “Just… be more carful. Please.”

\----

Mor is standing in front of Andromache`s rooms again. Her heart is racing so wildly that she thinks it might just jump out of her chest. Every fibre of her being is telling her to run, but she refuses to give in to the urge. Instead, she forces herself to remember Miryam`s reaction to finding out the truth. How she seemed to think of it as perfectly normal.

“I need to speak to Andromache”, she says.

“I`m sorry, My Lady”, one of the guards says, “but –“

“If she won`t see me, I`ll wait here until she comes out.”

She needs this solved now, while she is still running high on adrenaline after her brief visit to the Black Land. After dropping off two of her closest friends to near-certain death. Before she has time to reconsider and loses her courage.

The guard hesitates for a moment, then seems to come to the conclusion that there`s no getting rid of Mor and slips into Andromache`s quarters. Mor balls her hands to fists so hard that her nails cut into her palms as she waits. Not even a minute later, the guard exits the quarters again and motions for Mor to enter.

She takes a final deep breath and slips into the room.

Andromache is sitting at her desk. She has turned her chair around to face Mor. Silently, she closes the door behind herself. Her eyes don`t leave the queen for even one heartbeat.

“What is it?”, Andromache asks. Her brown eyes are cold.

Mor wants to speak, but her tongue seems glued into place. She feels sick.

Andromache leans forward in her seat. “I don`t know what you`ve come here to say, but I don`t wish to discuss what happened two days ago.” She runs a hand through her curly hair. “I thought there was something between us, but clearly, I misinterpreted things. I`m sure it will be fine in a few days, but right now, I`m upset and I –“

“It`s not allowed”, Mor bursts out, cutting her off.

Andromache blinks at her. “What?”

Mor feels like she has swallowed a can of worms, like they are now crawling around in her stomach, coiling around each other. _It`s fine_ , she repeats to herself, _Remember how Miryam reacted, how no one thinks anything of Sinna and Nephelle being together. This is normal on the Continent. And even if you tell Andromache, that doesn`t mean anyone in Prythian will find out. You`re save, they`ll never know._

“In the Hewn City”, she says. Each word is a battle, but she forces herself to keep speaking. “It is not allowed for two females…” She shakes her head. “It`s considered a disgrace.”

Andromache`s eyes widen, her hand flies to her mouth.

“If my parents find out…” Mor chokes on the words. A dark chamber so deep under the Hewn City that no one could hear her screams, nails piercing her skin… “What they`ll do to me…” Tears burn in her eyes, she swallows. “No one knows. No one can ever know. But that day… Rhys and Az were there, they _saw us_. Azriel especially, and if he…”

Andromache is on her feet and standing next to Mor faster than she considered it possible for a human. “Oh Mor”, she whispers and gently wipes her tears away. “I`m so sorry. I didn`t know…”

Mor shakes her head. “How could you know.” A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob breaks out of her. “My gift is truth, yet I am too much of a coward to stop lying about myself.”

“Don`t you say that”, Andromache says forcefully. She gently lifts Mor`s chin. “You are brave. You are so very, very brave to face these things. Don`t ever let anyone convince you of anything else.”

Mor wipes her hand over her face. She hates that she`s crying. “I`ve never told anyone. Not even Rhys.”

Andromache smiles softly. “Then I`m honoured to be the first.”

But Mor hasn`t told her yet – not really. “I want to say it. Out loud.” A simple sentence, that`s all it would take. She takes a deep breath, but the words won`t come out.

“It`s okay”, Andromache says and puts a light hand on her arm.

Mor closes her eyes and focuses her touch. “I prefer females”, she whispers.

It`s like a weight she didn`t even know existed lifts from her chest at the words. She said it out loud. Andromache smiles broadly at her, and Mor returns the grin. She feels giddy and light, like she might float away any time.

“I like both males and females”, Andromache says. Then, almost shily, she adds, “But most of all, I like you.”

Mor blushes. “Likewise”, she says softly.

Andromache lets out a soft, startled laugh. “You have no idea how long I`ve been waiting for you to say that.”

“Really?” She knows Andromache kept flirting with her, but until two days ago, she was never wholly convinced that the queen had any genuine interest.

“Yes, really. I found you interesting from… pretty early on, actually.”

Strange. They only started flirting more than half a year ago – at least that`s when Mor began to notice.

Andromache seems to notice her confusion, because she grins. “I thought you had a thing for Miryam.”

Mor gapes at her for a solid five seconds until she regains her composure. “No.” She wildly shakes her head. “Miryam`s like a sister to me, I could never love her that way.”

For a while, they stand in comfortable silence. Mor`s heart is still racing, her body is thrumming with energy, but slowly, she begins to calm down. She told Andromache, and the world hasn`t come crashing down around her. Everything is well.

“What now?”, Andromache finally asks.

Mor shrugs. Her stomach clenches. “I don`t know. I don`t think I can… I mean…” She shakes her head. “This has to remain a secret. I don`t think I`m ready to tell the truth to anyone else yet.”

Andromache nods. “If you ever decide to make it public, I`ll stand with you. But if you don`t, that`s your choice and I understand. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you”, Mor whispers. “And about… you and me?”

Andromache shrugs with one shoulder. “Not really the type of thing you can plan, is it? I`d say we just wait and see how things go.”

Slowly, a smile spreads over Mor`s face. “Yes”, she says, “I think I`d like that.”

\----

Most slaves in the Black Land aren`t meant to be seen. There are some of them, of course, who work in public positions – dressed in silk and expensive jewellery, put on display the same way you`d do it with an expensive vase as they work. But the large majority – those who clean the rooms and prepare dinners for their masters – are supposed to remain invisible. It`s why for every open corridor in Ravenia`s palace, there`s another smaller one for the slaves to use.

Right now, those corridors save Miryam and Jurian by allowing them to stay out of the eyes of the Fae. Even five years after Miryam last lived in this palace, she still remembers the layout. It seems like it is permanently burned into her brain – like everything else from that time.

As they walk through the palace, they keep passing other slaves off on errands for their masters. Miryam tries not to look at them, but there is a tight knot in her stomach, and it grows with each human they pass. She swore to save them. She swore it by every star in the sky, but five years later, they are still enslaved and she is here, but she won`t be able to help them. She has failed so far, and there is no certainty that she will succeed in the future. Standing here, in this palace, it certainly seems impossible.

The tunnels unfortunately don`t lead to the dungeons. It seems even the most arrogant of Fae realize that it`s a bad idea to build secret passages straight to the dungeons. Miryam leads Jurian to a smaller tunnel on the palace`s lowest level. When they reach the door that leads out into the corridor, Miryam mentally reached out for the wards covering the exit. But her power twists out of her grasp, slippery as a fish. The strings only tremble, but don`t move.

“Something wrong?”, Jurian asks.

Miryam swallows. “No.”

She takes a deep breath. Not now, please, not _now_.

“Leie ké”, she whispers. This time, her magic follows her summon, even if it`s still hesitant.

Miryam steps through the door before it can slip her grasp again. Jurian follows. He`s frowning at her, but Miryam avoids his gaze. She hasn`t told him about the trouble she has with her magic yet, and now is not the time.

The corridor they step out into is mercifully deserted. Together, they round a corner and there, on the right, is the entrance to the dungeons.

Two guards are posted in front of the doors. Miryam slows her steps so that she has time to survey the situation. There is an additional layer of wards surrounding the dungeons. The net is woven far more tightly than any Miryam has ever seen. She swallows. The brand on her arm will allow her to enter, but as for Jurian… She quickly inspects the wards. There is a loophole built into them to allow any palace guards, slaves and other people with a clearance to enter – she can work with that.

But Cauldron damn her, those wards… They are a true masterwork. Better than any Miryam has ever seen. She doesn`t even understand half of what she`s seeing, really. They have almost reached the guards when she finally figures out how to temporarily create an exit that will allow Jurian to enter. Now if her power just doesn`t give out again –

Next to her, Jurian sucks in a sharp breath. Miryam looks up just in time to see a group of people walk towards them from the other side of the corridor.

Miryam forgets how to breathe. Every thought eddies out of her head. But her instincts, trained through years of living in this palace, don`t fail her. In a smooth motion, she falls to her knees and inclines her head. Dark hair falls into her eyes as she does, shielding her face from view. Clothing rustles against stone as Jurian follows her lead.

Ravenia continues on, her entourage behind her, without so much as a glance towards the two humans.

Miryam forces herself to take a shuddering breath. Then another. She cannot be too panicked – Fae can smell fear, and if she draws Ravenia`s attention to herself, she will be done for. This isn`t a very calming thought, of course, so Miryam instead focuses on the cool marble under her knees. She puts her emotions back on a tight leash, letting just enough fear seep through to not seem suspicious.

Careful to keep her head bowed, she lifts her gaze up off the ground and looks at the monster who murdered thousands of her people. Ravenia moves with a casual elegance, her white silk clothes swaying around her ankles. She doesn`t so much as look to the left or right, but keeps her eyes straight ahead, like anyone else is beneath her notice. Hers is the arrogance of the female who is on top of the world, and who can`t even imagine being anywhere else.

Three human slaves follow close behind her. Their fine clothes and the scars covering her body mark them as Ravenia`s personal slaves. One of them carries a chair, another a tray with food and a third a goblet of wine and a glass. It seems that the queen has chosen to take her dinner in the dungeons.

The guards in front of the entrance both bow deeply in front of their queen. She breezes past them without so much as a glance, but before she is quite through the door, one of her slaves, a young boy, trips. Wine spills from the goblet he was holding, a drop stains the hem of Ravenia`s white robes.

Slowly, she turns around. The boy is trembling, begging the queen for forgiveness. Ravenia cuts him off with one arched eyebrow.

“Why is it”, she asks softly, “that I constantly have to suffer my subordinate`s incompetence? My interrogators, supposedly the best in the world, seem incapable to present me with any satisfying results. And now, it seems my slaves are unable to perform even the most simple of tasks.”

“Forgive me, your Majesty”, the boy whispers. He must be new to the palace if he beliefs that his pleading will do him any good.

“Put down the wine”, Ravenia orders.

The boy does as she says. His thin frame trembles. The other two slaves watch with tight faces, like they know exactly what is about to follow. Miryam does, too. She has seen it far too often.

Fire shoots from Ravenia`s fingers. The boy doesn`t even have time to scream as the flames encompass him and reduce his body to ashes. Miryam presses her lips together and swallows the sob that threatens to rise in her throat.

Ravenia turns her dispassionate gaze back onto the wine goblet. “Pick that up.” When no one replies, she sighs towards the ceiling. “Cauldron spare me from mortal stupidity.” Then, she turns straight to Miryam and Jurian. “ _You_. Move, or are you deaf as well as daft?”

Miryam doesn`t move. But Jurian does. Quick as lightning, he is on his feet and picks up the goblet and the glass. Miryam`s hands tremble. She needs to move, needs to do something, she can`t just leave him with that monster. But any action on her part would only get both of them killed.

Without so much as a look back to the ashes of the boy she just murdered, Ravenia continues on to the dungeons. At the last second, Miryam remembers to disable the wards so that Jurian can pass through. He manages one last look over the shoulder back at her, and for one of the first times since they met, she sees true fear in his eyes. Then he is gone, vanished after Ravenia into the dungeons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this chapter was pretty dark (and I'm afraid the next will be no better, at least in the beginning), but I still hope it turned out all right.  
> Regarding Mor's coming-out to Andromache, I just wanted to say that I tried to write it as well as I could, but I'm aware that I might still have made (possibly offensive) mistakes. If that happened, I`m sorry and I'd be very happy to be told so that I could correct them and do better. (Same goes for anything else in my writing, really.)  
> The next chapter should be up more quickly! If all goes according to my plan, I`ll have this arc finished by the end of this week, which would mean two chapters in this week :)


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Another dark chapter. There will be mentions of torture, as well as some other heavier topics, but nothing worse than some of the stuff in canon.

## Chapter 27

Jurian grips the wine goblet and the glass to tightly that his knuckles turn white. His heart is racing. He keeps waiting for Ravenia or one of her officials to look at him and recognize him from the meeting. One look, that`s all it would take to get him killed.

He follows the Fae down a long flight of stairs. Down and down they walk, until Jurian is sure that they must be far beneath the earth. The air feels thick, like the tons of stone over them press any oxygen out of the tunnels. There are few guards, but they will be more than enough to kill Jurian should he be discovered. Especially because he doesn`t have a weapon. And he has no idea where Miryam has vanished off to.

_Don`t get separated._ It was one of the main rules for this mission, but he has failed already. Shit, shit, _shit_. One of the slaves, a young boy carrying a chair that is bigger than him, gives him a small smile. It`s likely meant to be reassuring and Jurian forces himself to smile back at him.

Finally, they reach the lowest level of the dungeons. There are only two guards posted in front of the door, and both seem to snap to attention only when they notice their queen approaching. Jurian supposes it`s just another proof of how secure Ravenia feels in her power. He can`t wait to wipe that smugness off her face.

Jurian is last to enter the cell and he has to stand up on his toes a bit to see. It is all he can do not to gasp.

Drakon is shackled to the ceiling in the middle of the room by the wrists. He appears to be barely conscious; his wings hang limply to the ground behind him. The white feathers are splattered in blood and there are burns and cuts all over his body.

Jurian can barely breathe past the anger that surges through him at the sight. He only distantly notices the young boy setting down the chair for Ravenia to sit down into. The boy quickly takes the goblet of wine out of Jurian`s hand and goes to stand next to the queen, but he can still only stare at his friend.

“So, my love”, Ravenia says, snapping Jurian back into reality, “Does my offer already begin to sound more appealing?”

Drakon lifts his head. He looks like he barely has the strength to do so. “No”, he says, “And I doubt…” He coughs. “I doubt torturing me some more is going to change my mind.”

“We`ll see.”

Ravenia motions for the human girl, who quickly holds out a plate with a variation of snacks out to her. Ravenia picks up a date, she rolls it between her fingers once, then takes a bite.

“You know”, she says and takes another bite, “this doesn`t need to happen. It`s your choice.”

Jurian is going to be sick.

Ravenia lets the human boy pour her some wine and takes a sip. Slowly, deliberately, she picks another bit of food from her plate.

“You must be hungry. Would you like something as well?”, she asks.

Drakon doesn`t reply. Ravenia sighs and turns to a masked male in the corner who Jurian only notices now. “I told you to keep him conscious.”

The male steps forward and gives Drakon a hard shove. “Answer her.”

Jurian decides that no matter what happens, no matter how this mission goes, this male won`t survive the night. That, he`ll make sure of.

“You`re already torturing me”, Drakon says.

He lifts his head to face Ravenia, but as he does, his gaze meets Jurian`s. His eyes widen in surprise. Jurian doesn`t dare to breath. _Look away_ , he begs silently, hoping that Drakon is aware enough to understand the situation, _Don`t say anything. Please._

Slowly, Drakon turns away from Jurian to Ravenia. “The least you could do”, he continues, “would be to _leave me alone_ while you do.”

“Oh, I will. But until then, I thought I`d give you a while to consider your options.”

So for the next couple of minutes, they simply wait. Ravenia finishes her dinner like the stench of blood in the air doesn`t bother her one bit. Jurian stands around, stares at Drakon and grows more furious with each passing second. By the time Ravenia finally stands up, he is about one heartbeat away from taking one of the bloody knives from the table in the corner and attacking the queen, consequences be damned.

“As you wish”, she says. Jurian could have sworn there is a hint of annoyance in her cool voice. “Then we continue.” She jerks her head towards the slave boy. “You”, she orders, “Stay here. Report if His Highness changes his mind.” She turns around and makes for the door. In the doorway, she pauses and jerks her chin at Jurian. “And you. Clean the blood up. This is disgusting.”

Jurian has to bite back a smile. It couldn`t have gone better. This is the perfect excuse to remain here.

The masked male waits until the steps of the queen and her entourage have faded in the distance. Then, he slowly turns around to his worktable. He runs his fingers over the knife, but then picks a bit of iron. The tip is glowing orange.

Jurian moves before he has time consider that he probably should not act before Miryam gets here. He dashes for the worktable and grabs one of the knives. The masked male turns around, but before he can do anything, Jurian runs the blade through his chest, pressing his free hand to the male`s mouth to stop his scream.

“This”, he hisses as the light leaves the Fae`s eyes, “is far too quick an end for someone like you.”

Jurian shoves the body off him and rushes over to Drakon. His friend is hanging limply in his shackles. There are so many injuries covering his body that Jurian doesn`t dare touch him for fear of making it worse.

“Hey”, he whispers. “Are you alive?”

“Yeah”, Drakon replies. His voice sounds hoarse. “Pretty sure I`m hallucinating, though. No way you`re here.”

“Of course I`m here. You didn`t really think we`d leave you to die, did you? We just have to wait around for Miryam, and then we`ll all leave this horrible place and get you to a healer.” Jurian glances towards the door, but there`s no sign of Miryam. Fortunately no sign of the guards, either.

“Miryam is… here too?”

“Sure.” Jurian tries hard not to stare at Drakon`s injuries. His chest feels impossible tight. “Just… let me get these shackles off, then everything will be better.”

Drakon doesn`t reply. Jurian isn`t even sure if he understood the question. He seems barely conscious.

But from behind him, a small voice says, “The shackles are sealed with magic. You can`t open them.”

Jurian spins around to come face to face with the little slave boy from earlier. He curses, then presses a hand to his mouth. He`d completely forgotten about the boy, but there he is, standing with his back pressed tightly against the wall like he hopes he`ll vanish into the stone. Jurian swallows and tries to look as unthreatening as possible.

“You aren`t a slave, are you?”, the boy asks, eyes fixed on Jurian. “You`re just here to free him.” Jurian nods, and he asks, “Why?”

“Because he`s my friend.”

The boy narrows his eyes at him, like he can`t imagine that what Jurian is telling him is the truth. But before he can say anything, the door to the dungeons opens a bit. Jurian has his knife lifted again in a heartbeat, but it`s just Miryam who slips into the cell. She presses a finger to her lips and quietly closes the door behind her. Then, she takes a quick step towards Jurian. She looks like she might hug him but stops herself.

“Thank the Cauldron”, she says hoarsely, “When Ravenia left without you, I thought…” She shakes her head softly, then turns to Drakon. Her eyes widen slightly, but then, she schools her features back into neutrality. “Hey”, she says softly.

“Nice to see you”, Drakon replies.

Miryam looks like she wants to say something – comforting words, something like that – but she seems to come up empty. “Can you winnow?”, she finally asks.

“And before you say anything”, Jurian says with forced lightness, “I should probably tell you that the only acceptable answer is _yes_. Because if it`s not, then we`re done for.”

“Not sure”, Drakon says and grits his teeth, “I`ll try.”

Jurian supposes that`s the best they could have hoped for.

\----

Miryam is just about to begin to unlock Drakon`s shackles when she notices the boy. He stands pressed against the wall and stares down at the ground like he`s very used to becoming invisible. It takes her only a moment to recover from her surprise. Then, she smiles at him and crouches down before him.

“Hello”, she says, careful to keep her tone friendly, “I`m Miryam. And you?”

“Ti.” He looks between them with wide eyes. His face is far too thin and there`s a long scar running over the side of his head. “You’re from the human-faerie Alliance, aren`t you?” When Miryam nods, a smile begins to spread over his face. “So, you`re going to save us?”

The words seem to split her heart in two. She was supposed to _help them_.

“I…” Her voice breaks. How is she supposed to explain that she is here, but she won`t be able to save her people? She lowers her head in shame.

“That`s what we`re fighting for”, Jurian answers for her.

“I knew it!”, Ti yelps, “The others think it`s just a rumour, and the Fae try to keep the truth from us, but I always knew that people out there were fighting for us.”

Jurian nods. “Listen, we are in a bit of a hurry. We need to get out of here before we can But we can take you with us.”

“No”, Ti says, “I have to stay here. If I`m gone, who will tell the others?”

Miryam shakes her head wildly. She may not be able to do anything for the other humans in this palace, but this boy, she can save. “If you stay here, you will _die_. Believe me, I know first-hand what Ravenia does to her slaves, and –“

“You`re her!”, the boy cuts her off.

Miryam blinks at him. “What?”

Behind her, Jurian clears his throat and inclines his head towards the door. Miryam nods. They need to hurry; someone could walk in here any moment. But she needs to solve this first.

“You`re the one who escaped”, Ti says, “I heard about you – that you were a slave like me, and that you managed to run.”

Miryam doesn`t allow herself to contemplate how it is that she became a legend even children hear about. Instead, she says, “And you could run, too. You could be _free_.”

Again, Ti shakes his head. He looks so painfully young, yet there is determination in his eyes. “I have to tell the others. They have to know that someone is coming for them.” He smiles softly. “Besides, I have family here – I couldn`t just leave them behind.”

Miryam`s throat is so tight that she can`t speak. Jurian steps up next to her and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“You realize”, he says, “that it will most likely take us years to win this war. You may well be dead by the time we do.”

Ti lifts his chin. “I know. But even if they kill me, I`ll be able to give the others something that`s not so easy to kill.” He looks at Miryam then. “Hope.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. She wants to take the boy and save him even against his wishes. Instead, she opens her eyes again and says, “Then go back to Ravenia and tell her that Drakon changed his mind. If you leave now, she might not suspect that you helped us. She might let you live.”

Ti nods. Without giving her the chance to change her mind, he`s on his feet and out the door. Jurian squeezes her shoulder.

“He might make it”, he says.

Miryam wishes she could believe him. But she knows better. “No”, she says softly, “He won`t.” She turns around to Drakon. “Let`s get out of here.”

\----

Drakon tries hard to focus on what`s going on around him, but his damned mind just won`t cooperate. He can`t seem to keep his attention on anything for more than a few heartbeats before his mind starts drifting again.

“I`m going to unshackle you now”, Miryam tells him.

Drakon nods. His head hurts. Everything hurts.

He must have zoned out again, because the next thing he notices is that the shackles on his wrists are suddenly gone. He tries to stand, but his legs won`t hold his weight and he nearly drops to the ground. Someone catches him by the shoulders before he can fall, but that just makes the pain worse. He groans, black dots dance before his eyes.

“Sorry”, Miryam says and carefully lowers him to the ground. “We`re almost out of here. I just need to disable the wards and when we`re back in our camp, I can look at your injuries. Give you something for the pain.”

“It`s not so bad”, Drakon says, which would probably have been more convincing if he had managed to keep from groaning in pain. He has no idea how he`s supposed to winnow like this, but he`ll have to find away. Even in his current state, he knows that there`s no way he`s letting his friends die in an attempt to save his life.

He manages to move to slide backwards a bit, until he is leaning with his back to the wall. Miryam and Jurian are talking about something – Drakon manages to focus long enough to understand that Jurian is complaining about how Miryam still hasn`t taught him how to use simple spells. They fall silent soon enough, though. Drakon closes his eyes and tries to ignore the pain. He is so tired.

“We have a problem”, Miryam finally says, startling Drakon awake. Her voice sounds tense.

“What is it?”, Jurian asks.

A pause. Then: “I can`t get through the wards.”

“What?”

Miryam shakes her head. Her face is blank in a way that usually means trouble. “I can`t figure it out. I tried, but I just can`t get behind the principle of how they work and I`m not strong enough to force my way through.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I`m sorry.”

Drakon curses softly. Jurian does too, but louder and far more creative.

“So we`re done for”, he says.

Drakon misses the first half of Miryam`s reply, but he manages to tune in again in time to hear her say, “- should be able to break the wards there.”

“We`d have to get out of the dungeons first”, Jurian says, “And since I doubt we`ll be able to pass Drakon off as a slave, we`ll likely have to fight.”

“It`s either that or die here”, Miryam says.

“Why are our options always so shitty?”, Jurian asks, sounding exhausted. “Fine. I`ll take care of the guards.”

Miryam follows him to the door. From where he is sitting on the ground, Drakon can`t see what Jurian does outside, but he hears the thud of a body hitting the ground. When Jurian slips back into the cell, there is fresh blood on his hands.

Drakon winces. “I`m not very helpful. Sorry.”

“Well, you just got tortured”, Jurian says, “so you`re officially excused from having to be helpful for the moment.”

Then suddenly, Miryam is kneeling in front of Drakon. “I`ll help you up now. Fair warning, it might hurt.”

“It _already_ hurts”, he points out.

Miryam carefully loops her arms through under his shoulders and pulls him to his feet. She obviously tries to be careful, but he still has to grit his teeth to keep from screaming. She takes him by one arm, Jurian by the other, and they slowly make for the door.

The walk is a daze of pain. He keeps stumbling over his own feet, his legs won`t support his weight and without Miryam and Jurian, he would have fallen. With each step, he tells himself that this one is the last – unfortunately, it never is.

Step. After. Step. Drakon didn`t remember that the stairs were this _long_.

Miryam stops walking so abruptly that Drakon stumbles into her. To his other side, Jurian reaches for his knife.

A male is standing in front of them, blocking the path out of the dungeons. There are no weapons visible on him, but the smug smile on his face seems to say that he won`t need them. Drakon doesn`t know him, but he recognizes his light grey robes, and the symbol – a script roll and a feather – stitched on it in dark wool. The symbol of the Guild. Which makes the male –

“Artax”, Miryam whispers.

\----

At the sight of Artax, Miryam`s body completely locks up. She wants to shrink back, wants to disappear. Looking at him, she is thirteen years old again, watching helplessly as he cast the spell that killed her mother. Helpless to stop what happened afterwards, too.

“I thought I noticed a little mouse gnawing at my wards.”

Smile on his face, Artax steps forward. Miryam flinches back, knocking into Drakon who hisses in pain.

“What an interesting little group”, the witcher says, “And what a cute escape attempt. But I`m afraid that`s the end of your game.”

“Miryam”, Jurian whispers. She whirls around to him. “What do we do?”

Artax laughs. “Your faith is admirable, commander, but your witch-friend won`t be able to help you now.”

This is probably where Miryam should come up with some defiant answer, but there is nothing she can say. She has faced members of the Guild before and walked away, but Artax is the _High Witcher_ of the Guild, and this is his castle. The odds are impossible. There`s only one choice left to make. Miryam reaches for the little pill hidden in her clothes.

“I`d suggest you surrender now”, Artax says.

Her fingers close around the poison. A quick death is the best she can hope for now.

“Miryam”, Jurian hisses again.

She hesitates. She brought them here. It was her plan, her failure with the wards. The poison would be the easy way. The coward`s way out. But there may be another path yet. She lets go of the pill and lifts her hands.

“Don`t be stupid”, Artax warns, “You cannot win this.”

She wonders if he even remembers her. Probably not. To him, she must have been just another slave girl back then. One of thousands.

“No”, she says, “I cannot _survive_ this. There`s a difference.”

Because the thing about witches is that their limits aren`t as much about power as they are about survivability. And Miryam is pretty sure that if she goes over her limits, she`ll be able to channel enough power to force her way out through the wards. She`ll die in the process, but the Jurian and Drakon will survive. It`s a fair trade.

“You don`t want to do this”, Artax warns, but there is something new in his tone. Something that almost sounds like worry.

Miryam takes a deep breath. Above her, the wards glow. Half a thought has her power rising to the surface.

“As soon as the wards are down”, she says to Drakon, “you winnow.”

Both Jurian and Drakon start to reply, but Miryam doesn`t listen. Her power is still rising. Until now, she never let it take control, carefully avoided so much as coming close to her limits. She mentally pulls at the strings that bar people from winnowing out of the dungeons with all the force she can muster. It`s a graceless attempt, but grace is for people who still have reason to be careful.

Her power surges. The familiar feeling of being caught in a strong current returns. But for the first time in her life, Miryam doesn`t fight against it.

The magic sweeps her straight off her feet. She gasps, but no air gets into her lungs. She`s only half in her body anymore. It is a struggle to remain focused on what`s about to happen.

Artax curses. The strings around him start to tremble. Power radiates off him in a soft glow, the strings move apart like they want to make space for what`s about to come.

Miryam braces herself. She whispers a few words under her breath and the strings move to follow her command. Distantly, she notices a headache forming behind her temples, but it doesn`t matter.

Artax strikes. The wave of power he sends shooting for her is strong enough to make the ground tremble. Miryam doesn`t even try to block it. Instead, she lets it hit – and as it does, she channels Artax`s power, lets it join her own. And sends it shooting for the wards.

She can`t think in the wake of the power that`s rushing through her body. Her blood is on fire, she`s burning up from within. Above, the strings that form the wards glow brighter and brighter, then burst apart. Miryam is only distantly aware that she`s being thrown through the air.

Then, the world explodes into white light.

\----

The first thing Jurian notices is that his head is pounding. It feels like someone split it apart with an axe. Slowly, painfully, he manages to open his eyes and blinks up at the night sky above him.

Cauldron, his _head_. He carefully touches it and his hand comes away wet with blood.

Slowly, he tries to sit up, but his arms won`t support his weight. He lets himself sink back into the sand. Sand. Desert. Open sky. He blinks and tries hard to sort through the haze in his mind.

The way out of the dungeons. Magic sizzling through the air like lightning. The feeling of being thrown through the air and –

“Miryam?”, he asks.

For a few frantic heartbeats, there is only silence. Then, someone groans softly next to him.

“Miryam?” His voice is high with barely concealed panic.

There is a dark shape lying next to him in the ground. Jurian crawls over to her and carefully puts a hand on her shoulder. Her skin is far too hot under his fingers. Gently, he shakes her.

She groans again and rolls on her back. Without opening her eyes, she mutters, “I`m still alive?”

“Yes”, Jurian whispers. There are tears running down his face, but he doesn`t bother to wipe them away.

“I thought I`d be dead”, she mutters, “Why am I not dead?”

Jurian is about to reply, but Miryam`s body suddenly jerks in his grip. She twists aside and retches into the sand.

“Are you injured?”, Jurian asks, scanning her from head to toe as well as it is possible in the darkness.

“My body”, she grits out, “is on fire.” She lets herself sink back into the ground. “Drakon?”, she asks.

“Here”, comes a muffled reply from their left.

Jurian looks around. In the darkness, he can`t see further than a few feet – he can make out Drakon`s shape, but that`s about as far as he can see. Still, he is almost sure that they are stuck in the middle of a desert, well away from any civilization. Not good. Both Miryam and Drakon desperately need a healer. If he`s honest, he does, too, but he seems to have gotten off lightly compared to the others.

“Where are we?”, he asks.

“Desert”, Drakon replies. He manages to sit up and face Jurian.

“Oh, really? Could you be more precise?”

“No. It`s a minor miracle I managed to winnow us at all, but where we ended up… no idea.”

“Okay.” Jurian stares up at the sky, but he isn`t good enough at reading the stars to be able to tell where they are. Next to him, Miryam throws up again and Jurian hastily holds back her hair for her. He tries hard to ignore the worry gnawing at his stomach. “No problem. We`ll just winnow again.”

“I can`t.” Drakon`s voice is tight with pain. “I barely managed the first time.”

“ _Try_.” Jurian feels horribly unkind saying it, but what choice does he have? They need to get to a healer. “What`s the worst that could happen?”

“We could die”, Drakon says, “Multiple ways. Horribly.”

Jurian sighs. Just _once_ , couldn`t the worst possible option be something like a sprained ankle? Miryam leans against him and he gently rubs her back.

“But if we don`t try, we`re stuck here”, he concludes.

“Fine”, Drakon says, “I`ll try. Let me just rest for a bit.”

With that, he lets himself sink back into the sand. Jurian is content to let him get his break, but Miryam shakes her head.

“No.” She tries to push herself up off the ground and Jurian hastily reaches out to steady her. “We need to try _now_.”

“But I _can`t_ ”, Drakon says. “It hurts and I`m tired and I need a break.” He sounds like he`s about to cry.

“I know”, Miryam says softly, “I know and I`m sorry. But rest won`t _help_. It won`t hurt any less, but in a bit, we`ll all be hungry and thirsty and cold. And things will only get worse once the sun goes up.” She manages to get into a kneeling position. “We need to get out of here now, or we`ll all die.”

Drakon is silent for so long that Jurian is half-convinces that he isn`t going to reply anymore when he says, “I`ll try.”

Jurian has to help Miryam crawl the few steps over to Drakon. They both take him by the arm. And then, they wait.

Nothing happens.

After minutes of sitting around like this, Drakon shakes his head. “I`m sorry”, he whispers, “I just _can`t_ … I need to focus on where I want to go, but I can`t concentrate enough. It hurts too much.” His shoulders shake like he`s trying to keep his sobs in.

“It`s okay”, Miryam says, “Just… try to think about something else. Something good.”

Jurian jumps onto her thought. “You were telling us about that big holiday you have coming up in Erithia. What was it again?”

“The Feast of the Mother”, Drakon says, “celebrates her creating the world.”

Jurian nods. “Tell us about it.”

So for the next few minutes, they listen to Drakon as he tells them about the Erithian traditions for their holiday. As he talks, he seems to calm down a bit.

Finally, Jurian deems it save to return to their original subject. “Remember that camp in Kerié?”, he asks. “We were there for another one of your Fae holidays a year ago.” And it happens to be rather close to the Black Land.

“They had that huge birch in the middle of the camp”, Miryam adds, “Everyone was dancing around it.”

“Yes”, Drakon says, “Yes, that might work.” He pauses. “I`ll try.”

Jurian takes him by the arm again. Nothing happens.

“Come on”, Drakon whispers, “Please.”

They fall into darkness. It is rockier than usual. Darkness presses against Jurian from all sides. Soon, his lungs are burning, but he keeps holding on to Drakon`s arm.

They tumble back into the world gracelessly. None of them can stand, so they all end up in a tangle of limbs on the ground. Jurian is the first to recover.

“We made it”, he says, still a little dazed.

“Yes.” Drakon sounds like he doesn`t quite believe it. He doesn`t even try to get up – maybe he can`t. Jurian wants to tell him that it will all be fine, that they`ll get him a healer in a moment, but his mouth won`t form the words.

“We`re still alive.” Miryam shakes her head.

And suddenly, she is laughing. Laughing and laughing like she can`t stop. Jurian wraps his arms around her and holds her close.

“It`s okay”, he whispers as her laughter turns to sobbing, “We made it, we`re safe.”

She keeps crying. In the distance, shouts ring out. People are moving between the trees, demanding who they are, what they are doing here.

“We`re from the Alliance”, Jurian shouts back at them, “And I think we need a healer over here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I`ll try to have the next chapter up by Saturday!


	28. Chapter 28

## Chapter 28

For the first day after their trip to the Black Land, Miryam is convinced she is going to die. She keeps drifting in and out of consciousness, finding peace in neither state. After a while, though, the pain fades and she realizes that she is actually going to survive this.

Three days after the incident, all that`s left is a pounding headache and a slight dizziness. Considering that there are lots of things that need to be done, she deems herself well enough to get back to work and joins Jurian in his tent to sort through the correspondence.

For a while, they sit and work in silence. Miryam has a hard time focusing on her work. Her power keeps tugging at her far harder than it should. She is so busy trying to keep it in check that she can barely muster the necessary focus for her work.

“Do you think he`s gonna be fine?”, Jurian asks quietly, distracting her from the letter she`d just been reading for the second time without truly grasping the meaning.

Miryam shrugs. The other healers told her that Drakon`s injuries would heal without any lasting problems, but as for everything else… When she visited him in his tent, he seemed to be doing well enough considering the circumstances, but she doesn`t believe for one moment that he`s just going to be alright.

“Depends on your definition of _fine_ , I suppose.”

She puts her letter away – she`ll deal with it later – and takes an unread one from the pile on her desk, scans the contents and hands it to Jurian. “For you. It`s about some strategy, one of the Sangravahn generals wants a second opinion.”

Jurian takes the letter and they fall silent again.

Finally, Jurian asks, “And you?”

“I wasn`t the one who got tortured.”

Jurian just watches her in silence. Miryam finishes another letter. He is still watching her. With a sigh, she looks up.

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“You don`t have to tell me anything if you don`t want to”, Jurian says, “But you don`t have to pretend that none of this bothers you, either. I know it does.”

Miryam stares down at her fingers. Putting on an act has become so natural that the very thought of openly showing her pain, even to Jurian, feels strange. What is she even supposed to say? That she isn`t sure if she can control her powers anymore? That she`s scared senseless by what her facing Artax and surviving might mean? That she can`t close her eyes without seeing the faces of the slaves left behind in the Black Land, that she feels like a failure for not coming having done anything for them yet? She settles for the easiest fact.

“I haven`t slept more than an hour at a time since we got back”, she says softly. “When I`m awake, I can shut the images out, but at night…” She shakes her head. “I thought it would get better eventually. But it doesn`t. It gets _worse_.”

Maybe saying it out loud was a mistake. It is certainly enough to send her power churning again. She grips the quill she was holding so tightly that is nearly snaps between her fingers and tries to breathe through the feeling of her magic trying to sweep her away.

“Do you want to talk about it?”, Jurian asks gently, “Maybe if you`d tell me what your nightmares are about –“

Miryam shakes her head. Doesn`t he understand? She can`t control it – any of it. Talking only makes it worse. Jurian looks torn. _Don`t push_ , she silently begs, _Please, just drop it._

Fortunately, before he can say something, the tent`s entrance flaps open and Mor breezes in. She grins broadly at them and Miryam smiles in return. Ever since she talked to Andromache, her friend has been all but floating with happiness. She deserves that happiness and seeing her like this is enough to brighten Miryam`s mood slightly.

Jurian leans back in his chair. “Evening Mor”, he says, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Nothing pleasant, I`m afraid”, Mor replies although she doesn`t quite manage to sound like it. She turns to Miryam. “I`m supposed to fetch you for a council meeting.”

“Oh. I see.” Miryam tries to worry settling into her stomach like a stone. She knew she`d have to deal with the council eventually – she has just hoped that it wouldn`t be today. Stifling a sigh, she gets up. “I shouldn`t keep them waiting, then.”

“Should I come, too?”, Jurian asks.

“No, you stay here.” This meeting likely won`t be pleasant, and if the Council is going to yell at her, the last thing she needs is Jurian yelling back. “I´ll manage.”

\----

The healers did an excellent job. They even managed to keep the wounds from scarring.

Drakon didn't have the heart to tell them that he would have preferred to keep the scars. He doesn't care if it would look horrible – with all that happened, his appearance couldn`t be further from his mind. But there is something strangely horrifying about any physical trace of his injuries vanishing, leaving only the memory behind. It's like it was all in his head, like he only imagined what happened to him. 

Drakon sits in his bed, knees drawn up to his chest. He has been told to remain in bed, which is an absolute nightmare. He tried to read, but he couldn’t focus on the words. So all that's left for him to do is sit around, trapped alone with his thoughts. He gets plenty of visitors, but the conversations are tenuous. Everyone is walking on eggshells around him and Drakon hates it. Even Sinna, who usually says exactly what she thinks and rarely ever bothers to veil her words, seemed careful. She didn`t even chide him for risking his life.

Drakon stares up at the ceiling of his tent. Grey. Boring, sad grey. 

If he has to stay in this cursed tent for one more second, he might just go insane. Drakon pushes his blanket aside and climbs out of bed. Too fast. Immediately, his head starts to spin and he has to grip the bedframe to keep from falling over. He grits his teeth and waits for the dizziness to fade. He finds some proper clothes and manages to get dressed without passing out. He is just fastening the last button of his jacked when the tent's entrance flaps open and Nephelle walks in.

"What are you doing?", she asks.

"Going out."

“Do you really think that`s a good idea?”, Nephelle asks in a reasonable tone.

"No, but I need to get out of the tent. Now."

Nephelle looks pained, but she shakes her head. "Look, I understand, I really do. But the healers say-"

Drakon shakes his head, tries to keep his breathing even. The tent suddenly seems too small, it`s like the sides are pressing in on him.

"Please", he whispers, voice breaking, "I just...."

He can see Nephelle struggling with herself. “Fine”, she finally says and holds open the tent`s entrance for him, “Come on, then.”

As soon as he is outside, he feels better. He takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the feeling of the fresh air in his lungs. If he wanted to, he could take off and fly away right now.

Nephelle steps up next to him. “What now?”, she asks.

Drakon realizes he actually has no idea. He just wanted to get out of the tent. But now that he thinks about it, there is just one place he needs to go.

“Get out of the tent?”, he suggests, because he can`t really tell Nephelle where he plans to go.

She follows him to the edge of the camp. As they walk, Drakon does his best to ignore the soldiers who stop to gape at him.

"What now?", she asks when they reach the end of the wards.

Drakon hesitates. He can`t very well tell here where he plans to go. “There`s something I need to do”, he says carefully, “Alone.”

Nephelle catches his meaning and immediately starts shaking her head. "You are still injured – you shouldn`t winnow.”

On any other day, Drakon would have agreed. Usually, he really isn't the type to act rashly, or disregard his healers' orders. But today, reason couldn't have been further away.

“It`s important”, he insists, “Please trust me on this.”

Nephelle hesitates, then slowly nods. Drakon smiles at her and winnows.

\----

Reckless. Irresponsible. Childish. It seems like the Alliance council is determined to come up with as many unflattering words for what Miryam and Jurian did as possible.

Looking suitably chagrined, Miryam lets the lecture wash over herself. It's a good thing she had Jurian remain in the camp, using his injury as an excuse. He certainly wouldn`t have taken the insults calmly.

"I apologize for not consulting the council in advance", Miryam says, "but the situation did not allow it. Secrecy was of utmost importance and calling an entire council meeting would have jeopardized that."

She doesn't defend herself because she feels their concerns are invalid. The other council members have every right to be angry. Jurian and her went behind their backs, they purposefully worked her way around an alliance decision. But if she doesn`t come up with a defence, this will cost her a large part of her standing in the Alliance.

The High Lord of the Night Court scowls at her. "So you say", he drawls, "And yet, it is clear to anyone here that the council made a choice that didn't suit your interests, so you found a way around it."

That is unfortunately true, but Miryam can hardly admit to it.

"I did no such thing", she says, which is an admittedly weak opening. "The council decides against launching a huge military assault to save a thousand soldiers. Jurian and I went alone on a stealth mission to free one male. The situation changed, and the council`s original concerns fell away. Jurian and I made a choice based on the new situation." She leans back in her chair. “And I think we should not forget that this mission was a _victory_ for our side. We didn`t just save Prince Drakon, we also won our first real victory against the Black Land."

There is a bit of murmuring around the table. Strangely, there still seem to be several people who are angry at Miryam`s actions. She understands their anger, but she had expected that they`d back off at this point.

Andromache, at least, seems to be on her side. "She's right", she says. "Miryam just won us a victory. The least the lot of you could do is stop chiding her for it."

"Well said", Helion mutters and gets up. "If we are done here, I have places to be."

A few people shake their heads at his lack of manners. Miryam smiles. She happens to know that Helion, unlike most Prythian leaders, is well-versed in Continental politics. He just likes to intentionally ignore the rules to get his point across. As soon as he left the room, some royal suggests they might end the session. Everyone gets up.

Miryam just wants to go home. She makes for the door as fast as possible without running, but life seems to have other plans.

"Milady", a voice says behind her, "May I have a word?"

Miryam turns around to Grand Duke Zeku of Sangravah. It`s not that she doesn`t like him, but her head hurts and she just wants to be alone. Still, she makes herself smile. "Of course, Your Grace."

He offers her his arm and they walk through the corridors of the palace together. 

"I'd like to congratulate you for your success", Zeku says. A small smile plays across his lips. "Since it seems no one else did." His smile vanishes. "How is Prince Drakon?"

"I don't know", Miryam replies honestly. "The healers tell me the wounds will leave no permanent damage, but as for anything else..." She shrugs.

"Please tell him that I hope he`ll make a swift recovery."

"I will."

They continue walking in silence for a while. Zeku leads them to the gardens, where they sit down on a small stone bench. 

"You argued your case well today", Zeku says, "but not entirely good enough, I'm afraid."

Miryam frowns. "My actions harmed no one", she insists, "Jurian and I risked no lives but our own."

Zeku smiles and shakes his head. "Sometimes, it's easy to forget how young you still are."

"It that a compliment or an insult?"

"A statement." Zeku tilts his head backwards to look up at the sky. "You may be able to play the games quite proficiently, but you are too idealistic."

Miryam crosses her arms. "Because I did not want to let my friend die?"

"No, because you fail to see the larger game." Zeku turns around to look at her. "Alliance decisions rarely go against your wishes. But now, one did and you didn't accept it."

Miryam is too Cauldron-damned tired to deal with this now. She considers justifying herself once again, but Zeku is one of her allies. "So what?", she asks, "Sneakiness is basically all Continental politics is about."

"But this isn't about politics, Miryam, it's about power." When she merely stares back at him in confusion, he smiles slightly. "You're the leader of this Alliance in all but name", he tells her. "Are you aware of the reasons behind you getting that position?"

Miryam rubs her temples. Her head hurts and she wants to go home. "Because I'm both Fae and human, so both sides of the Alliance can feel represented by me", she says, "And because I have no formal alliance to any single territory."

"And", Zeku adds, "because no one considered you to be a threat." Miryam arches an eyebrow at him and he explains, "You see, most of the Alliance members joined the humans partially out of annoyance about the Black Land`s power. They did not want a single country to control the Continent, but that meant they couldn`t let one of their own lead the Alliance either, or they`d just end up replacing Ravenia with another ruler." He inclines his head at Miryam. "So you see why it was incredibly convenient to most Continental powers to have an admittedly bright, but largely powerless young woman take up the position."

"I assumed as much." She hadn't been sure up until now, but it had always seemed fairly obvious that most Fae royals allowed her to act as some kind of political leader of the Alliance mainly because they couldn't agree on anyone else who should hold the position.

"Yes, but I think we agree that you turned out to be a lot more than a pretty face for the Alliance. Even putting aside the rather unfortunate fact that you turned out to be a witch, you've developed quite a bit of political power. Enough to have some people worry about what you might do when this war ends."

“I just want to save my people”, Miryam says.

"That may be. Still, be very careful about how you proceed, Miryam", Zeku says, "You're walking on an extremely thin high wire, and unlike the rest of us, you don't have a security net. If you fall, you'll fall all the way down."

\----  
Winnowing, it turns out, was one of Drakon`s worse ideas. 

He loses his balance when he lands and goes tumbling into a huge green bush. There, he remains lying for a few heartbeats, gasping for air and waiting for the feeling that someone set his blood on fire to fade. Finally, the pain becomes bearable enough that he manages to get up. 

Something is crawling over his shoulder. Slowly, Drakon turns around and finds a huge, hairy spider crawling down his arm. He lets out a very un-princely yelp and sends a gust of wind that sends the spider flying into a bush. He is suddenly very happy that he didn't winnow back to Erithia to get a priestess to accompany him. He really didn't need anyone to witness that.  
He starts walking. The jungle around him is alive with noise, birds chirping, small animals rustling around, monkeys screaming. It takes only a few minutes for Drakon to calm down. Somehow, Cretea has this effect, and Drakon always loved the island because of it.

He has to stop twice on his way to the cave. Normally, the walk would not have given him any trouble, but his body still feels sore enough that he has a hard time walking up the mountain. By the time he finally reaches the cave, he's out of breath and sore.

The door opens easily at his touch. Drakon slips into the tunnel and walks down without sparing a glance for the glowing walls. He only stops when he reaches the doorway. Once again, mist rises before him.

Drakon had expected that the spell would take his father's form again. He had been prepared to face him. But when the mist rises, the form it takes is not that of his father. Instead, a masked male appears before him. Small and thin, with a glowing bit of iron in his hand.

Drakon flinches. He stumbles back a step. He is shaking so badly that he has to reach for the wall to steady himself.

“Go away”, he whispers. “Please. I can`t do this.”

The male takes a step forward. Drakon presses himself against the wall. Rationally, he knows that the spell won`t harm him, that none of this is real. However, his body doesn`t seem to catch onto that. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to panic.

He shouldn`t have come here.

He doesn`t know how long he leans against the wall. For all that he tries to tell himself that none of this is real, he can`t get himself to come closer to the male. Besides, the spell demands that you _face_ your fear, and walking through it because it`s just a spell that can`t harm him doesn`t work. The doorway simply won`t let him through.

So he lets himself slide to the ground and remains sitting with his back to the wall. He had hoped that maybe visiting the sword would help solve his problems. It was created by the Cauldron, so according to the Seraphim belief, it is a direct channel to the Cauldron and, by extension, the Mother. A goddess seems like just about the only person who can help him right now. But if he can`t get into the main chamber, he`ll just have to find another way.

"I don't know what to do", he says, "I've tried to do it all right, to be there for my people, but no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, it's never enough. And now Ravenia knows about Cretea and I can't even talk to anyone about it because that would mean revealing this secret." He runs a hand through his hair. "Please", he whispers, "I know that I am just mortal, and that it isn't my place to make any demands of a goddess, but I'm begging you. I just need advice on what I should do." Nothing moves in the small chamber. "Please", Drakon repeats, "My family has guarded this sword for you for millennia, almost since the beginning of time. But if Ravenia gets a hold of it, she will use it to turn this world into a different place and I can't stop her on my own, so please _help me_."

There is no reply. Not even the faintest sound. Drakon jumps to his feet and begins pacing.

"You want this too, don't you?", he asks, "You were the one who tasked my ancestors with guarding this blade in the first place, you must care about it!" There is still no reply. Drakon throws up his hands. "I got tortured to keep your stupid sword hidden!", he shouts. His voice echoes on the walls of the cave, "Do you have any idea what they did to me? And you _let_ them. The least you could do would be to answer me now!"

From behind him, a soft, rasping laughter sounds. Drakon spins around, but it is not the Mother who stands at the edge of the cave.

"You", Drakon hisses, glaring at the ghost of the old witcher. 

"Pleased to see you, too." The male laughs.

"Go away", Drakon tells him, "I want to be alone."

“Oh, let me guess.” The male gives him a nasty smile. “You can`t get into the cave, and you are yelling at your goddess in the tunnels. Something horrible happened and you are here to ask for help, right?”

"You don't know a whole lot about that goddess of yours, do you?", the witcher asks, "She won`t care about your problems. You get to suffer and bleed and die for her, but the moment you dare ask for something in return, she turns a blind eye." The sorcerer laughs again. “You need help? Then don`t ask a goddess. Especially not this one.”

Drakon presses his lips together and refuses to look at the witcher. “That`s not true”, he says, but the words sound hollow even in his own ears.

“You know it is. If you truly need help, though, I could be of assistance. If you free me –“

“I didn`t give the sword to Ravenia”, Drakon cuts him off, “I certainly won`t use it to free you now.” Without another world, he turns around and walks back through the tunnels. He wishes there was a door for him to slam.

\----

Jurian watches Miryam over the letter he pretends to be reading. She has been mulling over her spell book for almost three hours now, without telling him or anyone else what exactly she`s looking for. With each passing minute, the frown on her face deepens.

Finally, Jurian has had enough. He knows that he doesn`t really have a right to know her every secret, but they _are_ in a relationship and sometimes, it would be real damn nice if she would just tell him what she`s thinking and not leave him to guess about everything.

“Are you looking into that wall?”, he asks, because it`s the most subtle way to start a conversation that he can think of.

Miryam looks up, startled, and the guilty look in her eyes immediately tells him that whatever she was doing, it had nothing to do with the wall she is supposed to be working on.

“Then what were you doing?”, he asks.

“Trying to figure out what happened with Artax.” She rubs her temples and shoots the book an unhappy look. “Unsuccessfully.”

Jurian doesn`t understand why she would care all that much about that. What counts is that she survived, not how. But maybe she is looking for a way to replicate what happened.

“I`ll get to the thing with the wall, though”, Miryam says, “Just… later.”

Jurian sighs. “This is _important_ , Miryam. I don`t understand why you`re so opposed to it.”

“I`m not”, she says, “It`s just that I don`t think it`s possible.

It`s painfully obvious that that`s not the entire truth. Jurian tries not to be annoyed with her for it. Tries and fails. He doesn`t know when it started bothering him - maybe when they went to the Black Land and he realized how ridiculously little he actually knows about what Miryam`s life was like before they met.

“You can`t always refuse to answer”, he says as gently as he can manage. “I understand that there are some things you cannot talk about, but it can`t be everything. It just doesn`t work like that!”

Miryam looks slightly panicked at that. She starts chewing on her lower lip and carefully avoids Jurian`s eyes.

“I`m scared”, she finally says.

“Scared of what?”, Jurian prompts.

“That I won`t be able to control it. That I`ll make a mistake.” She shrugs.

Jurian contemplates her words for a moment. He`d assumed that she`d gotten over her initial fear of her magic, but apparently, he was wrong. Or maybe what happened with Artax scared her all over again. It certainly scared _him_.

“You managed just fine so far, though”, he says, “You`re good at this. Why would it change?”

Miryam shrugs again. “You`re probably right.” She slams the book shut.

“Maybe if you`d teach me”, Jurian tries, unwilling to give up on the topic this soon, “If I`d know a bit more about how magic works, I could understand what you`re doing?”

“ _I_ don`t even understand what I`m doing.” She smiles. “But I could show you a few things. Not spells, just general facts.”

Not learning about spells feels like a huge waste, but he doesn`t want to push his luck. “Great”, he says.

For the next few hours, Miryam does her best to explain him the basic rules of witchcraft. Unfortunately, it turns out that understanding the mechanics behind how magic works is not one of Jurian`s strengths. Miryam keeps talking about strings and connections that are so complicated that even hearing about them gives him a headache.

He is just about to ask Miryam for a break when Drakon ducks into the tent, making Miryam stop her explanation mid-sentence. Drakon gives them both a tight smile and sits down on the third chair. He looks tired. A bit older, too – not in his face but in his eyes. So far, he has been holding it together rather admirably, but Jurian is still worried about him. At least he hasn`t vanished from camp again without telling anyone where he was going after that one time two days ago.

“How were things with your soldiers?”, Miryam asks.

Drakon shrugs. He visited the soldiers who had been taken prisoner by Ravenia today.

“Weird”, he says. “They acted like I was some kind of hero.”

“You risked you life to save theirs”, Miryam points out, “That`s about as heroic as it gets.”

Drakon rubs his arms, his wings tremble slightly. “I only let myself be taken prisoner. If anyone should be seen as a hero, it`s the two of you.” Before either of them can object, he changes the subject. “Do you have any liquor here?”

Miryam frowns, but Jurian nods. He finds a half-finished bottle of wine in one of the cupboards.

“No glasses, I`m afraid”, he says.

“No problem.” Drakon takes the bottle from him. After a few sips, he hands it back to Jurian.

For a while, they sit in silence and pass the bottle around.

“Do you remember”, Drakon finally asks, “those texts I showed you a while ago? The ones I wrote.”

Miryam nods and leans forward in her seat.

“You said I should publish them”, he continues. “Maybe I really should.”

“I thought you didn`t want to”, Miryam says.

Jurian looks between the two of them. He doesn`t know exactly which texts they are talking about, but he does know about the papers Drakon likes to write. The ones he never shows anyone.

“I was scared that people would laugh. That I would look stupid”, Drakon says. He takes another swig from the bottle and hands it to Miryam. “But I don`t think I care all that much if people laugh, now. There are worse things.”

Jurian stares down at his hands. He always wanted Drakon to grow a little more self-confident and stop worrying about what other people think of him so much. But not like this. Because this doesn`t feel like progress at all – it`s just sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the end of this arc! So for the next chapter, there will be another time jump of a few months/maybe a year.  
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There`s another time jump of about 10 months before this chapter.

## Chapter 29

Drakon didn`t expect his essays to get any kind of attention. No one in international politics ever seemed interested in what he had to say, so the idea that they`d be care about his writing seemed absurd.

But maybe getting captured and tortured by the enemy made him _interesting_ enough that people suddenly were interested in what he wrote. Or he just got lucky. Either way, the essays he published – an analysis of why it was the Fae`s duty as a people to help the humans fight for their freedom – got popular practically overnight with the Fae soldiers. According to Miryam, his timing was perfect. With causalities rising each day, many Fae had been questioning what they were fighting for, and apparently, Drakon`s texts did a good job of reminding everyone what this war was really about and thus increasing troop morale.

Even ten months later, Drakon still hasn`t gotten used to his new popularity.

Sitting on a rock just outside of their current camp with an open book on his lap, Drakon watches the first rays of the sun colour the land in golden light. Before he got captured, he liked to still be asleep by sunrise. But these days, he keeps waking up from nightmares and then, he can`t stand the confinement of his tent. So he usually ends up sitting somewhere outside of the camp long before sunrise, either getting some paperwork done or writing another essay. Like today, when he`s close to finishing an essay explaining why the Fae`s supposed superiority is a myth. He just needs a final argument.

Miryam finds him when the sun has almost fully risen over the horizon. The light makes the tips of her hair glow and makes her look like she`s wearing a crown of fire.

“How is it you always know where to find me?”, Drakon asks with a smile and closes his book.

“You`re a tad predictable.” Miryam plops down on the stone next to him.

These days, their sleeping habits are rather similar. Some days, Miryam will join him outside of the camp. Sometimes, they talk about his writing, about politics and the war. Occasionally, Drakon tells her about his nightmares. She never talks about hers. Other days, they just sit in silence. He has come to miss her when she doesn`t join him in the morning.

“I have a council meeting in an hour”, Miryam says, “Do you want to come?”

“Can`t.” And he doesn`t really want to, either. At Miryam`s insistence, he joined a few council meetings in the last few months, but even though the Council is far more polite to him these days, he still doesn`t enjoy the meetings. “I have a meeting of my own in Erithia in two hours, and I promised Jurian to join him for a patrol afterwards.”

“What`s the meeting about?”, Miryam asks.

Drakon starts drumming a rhythm on his leg. That`s another new habit of his. One of the healers from home suggested he should find something to focus on, a distraction to help him deal with things. He had a list of things one might use and Drakon settled on rhythms. It helps him remain calm.

“Remember this reform for our taxation system we were discussing three days ago?”, he asks. Miryam nods and he continues, “Well, it`s up to vote today, but I don`t think it will pass.”

Miryam smiles and shakes her head. “Only you would sound cheerful about losing a vote.”

“Well, I`m not happy about losing, obviously. But if I lose a vote, it means my system is working.” He shrugs. “Besides, most of the people on my council are smarter than me, so if they don`t allow a law to go through, I`m sure they have a reason.”

“And if the reason is that it doesn`t benefit them personally?”, Miryam asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, who is it that would suffer under your new law?”

“Well, it`s supposed to make the system fairer. No one _suffers_.” The whole idea behind it is that fewer people suffer. But still, he knows what Miryam is aiming for. “But I suppose there will be an increase in taxes for the rich.”

“And what would you say, how many of your council members _are_ rich?”

“You mean…” Drakon groans. “But they are supposed to represent the people! That`s what they were elected for!”

“I`m not saying they don`t care about the people”, Miryam says. “Just that you might want to take into account that they _also_ care about themselves.”

Drakon rubs face. Either way, if Miryam is right, his system has a serious design flaw.

“So what do I do?”

Miryam shrugs. “How am I supposed to know? I have no idea how laws work, or how to run a country. I just know a thing or two about people.”

Drakon sighs. Maybe if he makes a rule that only half of the seats can be given to people from the upper class? Either way, it means changing the system again.

“Damnit”, he mutters and continues drumming around on his leg.

“Hey.” Miryam moves closer and wraps an arm around him. “This new system of yours is a great idea, really. But you`ve only been doing this for a few years. It`s completely natural that there are still things that need fixing.”

Drakon nods. “I better figure something out, then.”

It will be a ton of work. But well, he knew in advance that changing his countries political system would not be easy. At least he`ll have something new to keep him busy during sleepless nights now.

“Do that”, Miryam says and gets up. “Now, I have a meeting to get to, so I should be off.”

He looks after her as she walks towards the camp. At the edge of the camp, she stops to have a short conversation with the guards. They are too far away for Drakon to hear what they are saying, but the sound of Miryam`s laugh drifts over to him.

Smiling, Drakon turns back to his book. He thinks he might be growing a bit too used to having her around.

\----

The meeting has been going on for more than four hours now. Miryam`s magic has been acting up for the last two.

Miryam holds herself so straight it makes her back hurt and tries to focus on the conversation, but the feeling that something is pulling at her becomes more insistent with each passing minute. Under the table, she digs her fingers into her leg so hard that it hurts. Pain, she learned, helps keep her grounded.

“I suggest we join the armies”, she says. Does her voice sound strained? “That way, we cover up for the losses and increase their chances to survive should there be another attack.”

Yes, the strain in her voice is most certainly audible. But since they are discussing how to best cover the loss of another two thousand soldiers, they are all a little on edge. She`ll fit right in.

“That way, we`re down another army”, Zeku points out, frowning at the map in the middle of the table. Little figures mark the positions of the armies. blue for the Alliance, red for the Loyalists. These days, there is no mistaking that there is far more red than blue to be seen on the playing field of this war.

“And if we don`t, we lose both if there`s another battle and they have too few soldiers left to defend themselves”, Andromache says matter-of-factly. The queen looks as tired as Miryam feels, with her slightly tangled hair and the brown skin that lost its usual glow.

Miryam nods at her. “We only have bad options here”, she says, “All that`s left to do is pick the one that`s least likely to end in disaster.” And do it quickly, so that she can get out of here.

Unfortunately, as soon as the matter at hand is solved, there are three more issues for the council to deal with and Miryam is stuck in the stuffy meeting chamber, listening to bickering royals and trying to stir the meeting into a productive direction for another hour. At least her power finally seems to settle down to the point where it`s almost bearable. Miryam leans back in her chair and tries not to let her relief show.

Finally, the last problem has been solved and Miryam thanks everyone for their presence. Ever since her conversation with Grand Duke Zeku, she is acutely aware that her basically leading the meetings does make her stand out in the Alliance, but there`s little she can do about her position now. Their situation is precarious enough as it is, the last thing they need is for her to step back from her leading spot and cause a power struggle amongst the Continental leaders.

At least she manages to get to the door without being stopped by any of her co-councilmembers and finds a Fae guard who is friendly enough to winnow her back to her camp. As soon as she is outside, the last bit of her dizziness passes.

“Evening Tia!”, she calls out to the woman who is currently trying to show a group of new recruits how to properly use a longbow. So far, no success is visible – most arrows miss their mark by several feet – and Tia looks annoyed when she turns around.

“This already looks better than in the morning”, Miryam says with a smile towards one of the recruits who is staring at her with wide eyes. She`ll never get used to the looks.

Tia snorts. “All I`m hoping for at this point is that they don`t hit each other. Or me.” Tia sighs. “You`ve seen to Jurian and Drakon already?” Miryam shakes her head and she adds, “Then you should probably go. They ran into trouble during their patrol.”

Dread settles into Miryam`s stomach and makes it hard to breath. _They`re alive_ , she tells herself, _if they weren`t, Tia would have said so right away._ “Where?”, she manages.

“Healer`s tent.”

Miryam nods and sets off. She desperately wants to run, but she is one of the camp`s commanders, people look to her for leadership. If she panics, it sends a bad message. So she walks as slowly as she can manage.

Both Jurian and Drakon are in the healer`s tent. Drakon is sitting on a chair. A healer stands behind him and tries to sew a deep-looking wound in his shoulder shut. Drakon looks a bit pale and winces each time the needle pierces his skin, but if he`s sitting up, the injury can`t be too dangerous. Jurian is pacing in front of him, face frozen in rage.

“What happened?”, Miryam asks. Her voice is breathless, even though she walked slowly.

“He`s a stupid idiot, that`s what”, Jurian hisses.

Miryam frowns. Whatever it is that happened between the two, it`s best discussed in private if she doesn`t want the entire camp to know about it within an hour.

“I`ll take over”, she says to the healer, who hands her the needle and hurries out of the room. Miryam quickly inspects the wound – deep, but the weapon didn`t hit anything vital – then continues the work.

“So”, she says, “now that we aren`t giving the camp gossips something to talk about anymore: What`s wrong.”

Jurian just continues to pace, pausing only to glare at Drakon occasionally.

“I made a completely reasonable choice -”, Drakon begins, butJurian whirls around to him and cuts him off.

“You could have died!”, he shouts. Miryam winces.

“I`m Fae. The chances of me dying –“

“I don`t care!” Jurian goes back to his pacing. “You don`t get to walk into a stupid arrow for me! You think I want you to _die for me_?” Without giving either of them the chance to reply, he whirls around and storms out of the tent.

Well, at least now Miryam knows what the problem is. “So I assume that arrow was originally meant for Jurian.”

Drakon nods. “An ambush. We were half an hour out of the camp when the arrows started flying. One went straight for Jurian.” He shrugs. Miryam wonders if he was this reckless a year ago already.

“Jurian is human”, Drakon adds, like he`s trying to justify his actions, “The chances of him dying were far higher. And even if he would have survived, his wounds heal more slowly than mine do.”

Miryam puts down her needle, reaches for a tin of salve and doesn`t reply. Saying anything on this would feel far too much like making a choice who she would rather see die, whose life she`d save if she got the chance. And she refuses to make that choice.

Drakon clenches his jaw when Miryam applies the salve to the wound, but doesn`t make a sound.

“Maybe you should go after him”, he says.

“I`ll give him a little time to calm down, then I`ll go.” If she runs after Jurian now, she will reach exactly nothing.

She reaches for a bandage and begins to wrap it around Drakon`s shoulder. Somehow, she feels bad about the entire situation. He meant well, and as thanks, he got shot and then yelled at.

“It was a brave thing to do”, Miryam says. That doesn`t sound like she`s telling him to do it again, does it? Just to be sure, she winks at him and adds, “Although I don`t think that will stop Sinna from giving you an earful about risking your life like this.”

“Oh.” Drakon makes a face and gives his shoulder a worried glance. “She`ll never let me fight again if she finds out.”

That seems highly likely. She wouldn`t even be wrong. It is the height of stupidity for a prince without heirs to jump in front of arrows to save other people. Stupid and brave. Miryam smiles. Neither Drakon nor Sinna ever seem to fully realize that he is, in fact, her superior and doesn`t actually need her permission for anything.

“Just tell her the arrow was meant for you, not Jurian.”

Drakon nods, looking relieved. “I`ll do that.”

She finishes the bandage in silence. Then, she passes Drakon his tunic. It is torn and bloody, but still better than running through the camp naked.

“Try to use the arm as little as possible”, she tells him. “I`ll change the bandages and take a look at the stiches tomorrow.”

Drakon nods. “Tell Jurian… Actually, I don`t know what you could tell him. I`m not even sorry.”

“And he isn`t actually angry”, Miryam says, “He just got scared.”

She finds Jurian in the sparring ring where he`s facing off against two opponents. She leans against a fence and watches him disable both opponents within a minute. He helps the two soldiers to his feet and wipes the sweat out of his face, then turns around to her.

“Walk with me?”, she calls out to him.

Jurian nods and follows her through the camp, away from the curious looks of the soldiers. They sit down on the stone where Miryam met with Drakon in the morning.

“He meant well, you know?”, she says softly.

“Of course he did.” Jurian wrinkles his nose. “That`s the damned problem, isn`t it?”

“Well, it`s not like we never risked our lives for his”, Miryam points out with a wry smile. Actually, she`d say that they both did far riskier things than stepping in front of an arrow. “Why is this such a problem?”

“Because…” He hesitates. “I know that the chances of all of us making it out of this alive are slim at most. I`ve accepted that.”

Miryam wants to disagree, but Jurian is right. With how this war is going, they`ll probably be lucky if even one out of the three of them lives to see the end of the fighting. If they win at all. She also knows that the chances of her being to one who survives are low. In the last months, Ravenia already sent three assassins after her. 

“But it`s not…” Jurian shakes his head. “It`s _not the same_ if someone else dies for me. Then it`s not bad luck or anything. It`s my fault. And I don`t think I can live with that.”

Miryam tilts her head back and looks up at the sky. That is the curse of their friendship – all three of them would die for each other, but neither could live with themselves if that happened.

“We`ve survived this far”, she says, “We won`t die now.”

Jurian picks up a stone and throws it into the bushes. “You usually lie better than that.”

She turns around to him and looks him straight in the eye. “We`ll all get out of this alive”, she repeats with as much confidence as she can muster.

“Thank you.” He gives her a sad smile. “I almost believe you.”

\----

Jurian turns the letter around in his fingers again and again. The paper is thick and surprisingly heavy. Expensive.

The exterior of the letter is as pretty and styled up as the contents. Clythia finds the most beautiful, poetic words to get her point across. She compares him to Lokus, one of the Fae`s legendary warriors, and herself to Eshi, his lover who fought beside him. Jurian may not be very well-versed in Fae mythology, but even without having to ask Drakon, he is pretty sure that Lokus and Eshi were _on the same side_ in their long-ago war. However, that detail doesn`t seem to deter Clythia from waxing poetry about the similarities and how they were meant for each other.

It seems the female who gleefully slaughters his people in battle has a romantic streak.

Clythia ends the letter by asking him to meet her tomorrow. It isn`t the first letter of that kind Jurian receives – Clythia writes him at least once a month – and under normal circumstances, he would have thrown it into the fire like he did with all the others. But this time, he hesitates.

At this point, it is abundantly clear that his side is not exactly winning the war anymore. And the longer this war rages, the higher the chance that someone he cares about ends up dead. If they manage to win at all. But his relationship with Clythia might give them an edge. It could mean the difference between victory and defeat for the Alliance, life and death for his friends.

 _You promised Miryam_ , he reminds himself. But she was only ever against the relationship because she worried about him. She thought he wouldn`t be able to handle what being with Clythia did to him. But he can manage. He has to.

A knock sounds on the entrance. Jurian instinctively hides the letter behind his back, then immediately feels stupid. He puts it on his desk and calls, “Come in!”

A soldier pokes his head through the entrance. “Lady Miryam and Prince Drakon need you in the war tent.”

Now, Jurian feels twice as caught. “I`ll be there in a minute.”

Once he`s alone in his tent, he turns back around to the letter. Lips pressed into a tight line, he stares at it. Then, he hastily scribbles a reply and watches the letter vanish into thin air. He spins around and stalks out of the room.

Meeting Clythia is the right thing to do. What does it matter what it does to Jurian if it can help them win this war? That`s what Miryam wants, too – surely she wouldn`t mind. _Whatever it takes._ That was their deal from the first day on. Well, this is what it takes. Besides, Miryam already told him that she didn`t mind him meeting Clythia. He is making the right choice. The only choice, really. He`ll tell her right after this meeting.

Still, he is sure that the shame is written plainly on his face when he enters the war tent. Miryam is sitting on a chair, knees drawn up to her chest, Drakon leans against the edge of the strategy table. His shoulder healed well and he has been back to fighting for four days now.

“Something happened?”, Jurian asks.

“We got orders from the council”, Drakon says and begins to explain the situation.

Apparently, they have reports of Amarantha`s army being stationed a few hundred miles further north. The Alliance only has a smaller force in that area, and they have been ordered to send reinforcements so that they can ambush Amarantha. Jurian has a hard time focusing on what Drakon is saying. His mind keeps drifting to the letter he sent. Is Miryam looking at him strangely? Surely she notices that something is off.

She looks so tired. These past months have been hard for her. Hard for all them, but Miryam with her tendency to feel responsible for everything is worst off. Maybe telling her about his plan with Clythia isn`t the right thing to do. It will just be one more thing for her to worry about. Better if he meets with Clythia and tells her about it _afterwards_. He doesn`t plan on more than one meeting, anyways.

“Jurian?”, Miryam asks.

“What?”

“You didn`t hear a word Drakon said, did you?” She sighs. “When is the last time you slept?”

“Yesterday? For at least three hours.”

“Well, that`s more than me.” Drakon grins at him. “I said that I should probably take my soldiers north while you remain here. We`ll be quicker if we don`t have to carry any human soldiers and the order we received said that speed was of importance for this mission.”

Jurian nods distractedly. “Maybe it`s for the best if you take Miryam as well. In case you need magical back-up.”

And as an added benefit, Miryam will be miles away when he meets with Clythia. That way, he won`t even be in a position where he has to tell her in advance. He`ll just meet with Clythia, try to get as much information out of her as possible. After that, he can kill her. He`ll tell Miryam when she gets back. That way, she doesn`t need to worry. It`s a perfect plan.

Miryam frowns at him, though. Too late, he remembers that it has been their unspoken agreement these past few months that he doesn`t push her to use her powers if it isn`t absolutely necessary. In return, she keeps working on the wall and occasionally teaches him a few of the simpler spells. Jurian doesn`t entirely understand where that new hesitation regarding her powers comes from and when he asks, Miryam just keeps repeating that she`s worried about losing control. Not that he`s ever seen that happen.

“Just in case it`s necessary”, he adds and smiles at Miryam.

He forbids himself from feeling any irritation about her hesitance. He`d give his right arm for abilities like hers, but at the end of the day, he knows too little about magic to really understand what she is struggling with.

“Good.” Drakon jumps to his feet. “Then I`ll get my soldiers ready.” To Miryam, he adds, “We leave in an hour.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is a bit more violence (tw mentions of torture and death) towards the end, but nothing too explicit. Still, if you want to skip it, you'll notice well in advance where it starts.

## Chapter 30

Just like for their first meeting, it is Jurian who suggests the meeting place. Standing in the stable, he only allows himself a moment to prepare for what`s about to come. He leans his face against his horse`s flank and runs a hand through its mane. In his head, he counts to one hundred. Then, he climbs into the saddle.

Tia stops him as he rides out of the stable. “Where are you going?”

“For a ride.”

It really is a good thing that Miryam isn`t here. She would never have bought that lie. But even though Tia knows him longer – they both joined the rebellion at a similar time, when he was thirteen and she twenty – reading people isn`t one of her talents. Still, Tia seems doubtful.

“For a ride?”, she echoes. “That sounds like an extremely easy way to get ambushed and die.”

Jurian can hardly tell her that the chances of him getting ambushed are low, since he is already meeting an enemy commander. Tia would be more likely to tie him to a chair than allow him to go meet Clythia. But he needs the information she might have.

“They are free to try and ambush me”, he says with a wink, “They`ll see what it gets them.”

Tia rolls her eyes and mutters something about how she`ll write that on his tombstone. Jurian laughs and gently presses his heels into his horse`s flank, sending it into a gallop.

This time, he didn`t try to delay the meeting and he arrives before Clythia. He ties his stallion to a tree and gently strokes its nose as he waits. Not even five minutes pass until a faint _pop_ sounds behind him.

“Hello”, Jurian says without turning around.

His heartbeat quickens and he tries to breathe as regularly as he can. Fae can smell strong emotions, and if he wants to get anywhere with this, she can`t notice his fear and disgust.

“You actually came”, she says from behind him.

“I said I would, didn`t I?”

It is probably not the most flirty reply. But Jurian has decided that he doesn`t have the biggest talent with words, so he might as well give up the attempts. Besides, the more he tries to play games with Clythia, the more he feels like throwing up.

Clythia steps around him and leans against a tree facing him. Jurian continues stroking his horse.

“I wasn`t sure. You never replied to me letters.”

Jurian doesn`t give a reply, mostly because he doesn`t have one. The truth hardly seems helpful to his goal of getting information out of her.

“If I went too fast last time”, Clythia says, “I apologize. I thought you might prefer going quickly.”

“It`s just all very confusing”, Jurian says. It`s the most neutral comment he can think of.

Clythia nods quickly, looking relieved. “I can imagine! For me, with my visions, it`s like we already know each other.” She shrugs. “I sometimes forget that it`s not the same for you.”

A perfect opening. Jurian pretends to consider, then nods. “What are they like? Your visions, I mean. Can you really see the future?”

She nods. “It just isn`t always as clear as I`d like. Some things are veiled, others change with time.” She smiles at him. “I`ve seen what would happen between us for years, though.”

“But other things can change?”, Jurian asks.

Clythia nods. Good. That means her idea that they are sure to end up together doesn`t have to become true.

“There are a few things that more or less stay the same no matter what, though.” Clythia laughs brightly. “Almost like it`s written in the stars.”

“Really?”, Jurian prompts. Now, this is interesting.

“Yes. For example, I`ve always known that I`ll die before Mara.”

It takes Jurian a heartbeat to realize that _Mara_ is her name for Amarantha. Then, he has to keep from smiling. The words seem like a confirmation for his plan.

“Or take that friend of yours. The witch”, Clythia says. It seems that she has chosen to ignore the fact that Miryam isn`t just a friend. “She`s another one of those constants.”

She might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. “What about her?”

“She doesn`t survive the war.”

Jurian stares at her. It takes a moment for the words to register, for him to truly realize what it is that Clythia just told him. When he finally understands, it is all he can do not to gasp. No. _No_ , this isn`t possible. It can`t be.

Clythia merrily breezes on, like she didn`t just completely upturn his world in a single sentence. “It`s what I keep telling Ravenia. _No need to worry about the girl. She`ll die anyways._ But does she listen? Of course not.” She winks at him like this is some kind of shared joke. “Ravenia doesn`t much like seers, you know.”

No, Jurian doesn`t. His mind is still caught up on the fact that Clythia just casually revealed that Miryam will die. That it`s written in the stars, nothing to be done about it.

“Besides, I think Ravenia takes it personally”, Clythia continues, “I mean, I can`t blame her. I know how _I_ would feel if one of my slaves ran away and decided to go to war with me.” She laughs. “Imagine the audacity!”

The only thing Jurian can imagine right now is drawing his dagger and killing her. He takes a deep, calming breath and tries to focus on why he is here. He looks around, trying to find a way to distract himself and settles on a bag lying next to Clythia.

“You brought breakfast?”, he asks.

Clythia blinks, obviously surprised by the sudden change in subject. “Yes”, she says, “Sure. Do you want to eat?”

Jurian nods. His stomach is churning, but eating will give him something physical to focus on. And then, he`ll just need to get some information out of Clythia, and all this will end.

\----

They fly for most of the night. By the time they land in the early hours of the morning, Miryam`s entire body is stiff and in spite of the thick cloak, she feels like she is half-frozen. She slowly walks a few steps up and down, trying to get feeling back into her legs. Unfairly enough, Drakon doesn`t seem bothered at all by the long flight. He is already laughing with one of his captains. Around them, the other soldiers land and fall into rank.

Miryam uses the time where nobody pays much attention to her to look around. They landed in the mud on the edge of a camp that`s much smaller than their own, but well-organised. Pitch-black tents stand arranged in neat lines, surrounded by defence systems. A night court banner flies over the highest tent.

Wonderful. At least the soldiers don`t seem to be Illyrians, which will hopefully spare her any freak-outs over her being a witch. Unfortunately, Night Court High Fae are, in her experience, far harder to deal with than any others.

She steps closer to Drakon. “You`ll have high command over the battle, right?” He nods.

“Then let`s go introduce ourselves”, she says.

Finding the person in charge of the camp turns out to be quite a challenge. The soldiers at the entrance let them through without putting up a fight, but none of them seem interested in helping them any further. Miryam and Drakon both ask after the camp`s commander, but the soldiers just stare at them.

Finally, Drakon picks a Fae male standing at the front. “You”, he says, “Take us to your commander, if you`d be so kind.”

The male shrugs and turns without a word. Miryam exchanges a look with Drakon, who looks torn between disbelief and annoyance as they follow the soldier. On their walk through the camp, Miryam can`t help but notice that she is the only woman around.

She really can`t stand the Night Court.

“There”, the soldier finally says and jerks her chin towards a big, black tent at the edge of the camp. It doesn`t look like a command tent.

“What is in there?”, Miryam asks, but the soldier has already disappeared back into the crowd.

Drakon gives her a bewildered look, shaking his head softly. “What was _that_?”

“Prythian”, she replies with a grin. “They aren`t big on politeness.”

With that, she walks towards the tent. Two guards stand in front of the entrance, but they don`t stop Miryam and Drakon as they enter the tent.

As soon as Miryam pushes aside the entrance, she realizes that she made a mistake. She spins around to Drakon to tell him to stay outside, but it`s already too late. Next to her, Drakon has frozen in the entrance. Then, before Miryam can do anything, he takes a stumbling step backwards, spins around and rushes out of the room.

Miryam desperately wants to run after him, but instead, she forces herself to turn around to the slender male who is standing in the tent, sneering at her.

“Keir.”

She does her best to focus only on him and ignore the six people hanging by their wrists behind him. All of them are covered in so much blood that Miryam has a hard time making out facial features.

“I asked for reinforcement”, Keir says, shaking his head. “The Alliance sends children.”

Miryam ignores the jab and nods towards the six people behind Keir. One of them groans softly. “Are these people your source?”

“Captured enemy soldiers. Sang like birds after an hour or so.”

“You got your information on the movement of Amarantha`s army through _torture_?” Miryam shakes her head. “But you realize that it is possible for people to lie, right? Torture doesn`t stop that.”

Keir waves her off like she`s no more than an annoying insect. “Believe me, these people would tell me anything to make it stop.”

“That`s exactly what I`m worried about”, Miryam shoots back.

Keir completely ignores her comment and turns to one of the prisoners. “You want to tell the girl what you told me?” As if to emphasize, he takes a small, bloody knife from a table.

“Stop this”, Miryam says sharply, “You will not continue torturing these people. Have them brought to a healer and then have them locked up.”

“No”, Keir says thoughtfully and moves his knife closer to the prisoner, who whimpers. “I don`t think I will.”

He angles his knife, aiming for the prisoner`s face. Miryam steps forward and grabs him by the wrist.

“I wasn`t asking”, she says.

Slowly, Keir drags his brown eyes over to her. Then, he looks at her hand on his wrist.

“How would you like it”, he asks, “if I made it public that your little friend can`t stand to see a little bit of blood without freaking out? Not a good trait for a military commander, is it?”

Fury crashes into Miryam like a wave and sends her magic spinning. She digs her fingernails into her palm and replies, “How would you like it if I had you stripped of your command for refusing orders from a superior?”

Keir slowly lifts his eyebrows. “Not quite as nice as your reputation, are you?”

“I make an exception for people who sell their underage daughter to marriage and then torture her for refusing.” She gives Keir a hard glare. “I`m not the child you met in your Hewn City anymore. If you think you can refuse my orders, or Drakon`s, and get away with it, then you`d better think again, because I won`t hesitate to end your career over this. Are we clear?”

Keir`s eyes are positively burning. But slowly, precisely, he nods. Miryam lets go of his arm.

“Good. Then I want you to have these prisoners locked up in a proper cell and have a healer see to them. Afterwards, you`ll get your army ready and make it clear to them that it is _Drakon_ who has high command over this mission, not you.” Without waiting for a reply, Miryam turns around to leave the tent. In the entrance, she pauses. “And you`d better hope that information you tortured out of your prisoners is correct. Otherwise, I`ll make sure that it`s your head on the line.”

With that, she goes looking for Drakon.

He isn`t with his soldiers. There, she only finds Drakon`s captains, who ask what is going to happen now. Miryam tells them that they just need to wait for the Darkbringer army to get ready. She tries not to slip through that she unfortunately has no idea where their Prince vanished off to. His personal guards look worried.

Since Drakon usually tries to avoid crowds and closed spaces, she decides to walk a circle around the camp and see if she can find him that way. In the light forest, Miryam can`t see very far. She doesn`t dare to shout – after all, there might be guards and the last thing she needs right now is a run-in with a bunch of Night Court guards.

She is almost ready to give up her search and make up an excuse for why Drakon had to leave at a sudden notice when she basically runs into him. He is sitting on a fallen tree by a river, drums a quick rhythm on the wood next to him and stares into the water.

Miryam sits down next to him. Asking if he`s alright seems stupid, so she just remains silent. Drakon keeps drumming his rhythm, fingers dancing too quickly for her to follow the movements.

“So that was Mor`s father”, he finally says without looking away from the river.

“Pleasant, isn`t he?”

Drakon nods. They are silent again for a while. Then, he says, “I still have a battle to lead, don`t I?”

“If you`re up to it.”

She isn`t yet sure what she`s going to do if he decides that he _isn`t_ up to it. She`ll probably have to hand over command to Keir, since there`s no way that she will be able to take the lead. And she`ll have to come up with an explanation for why Drakon is indisposed. Maybe some emergency in Erithia?

“I`ll manage”, Drakon says.

Miryam still hesitates. _I wish I could give you a break from all this._ But this is war, and they have no time left to squander.

“Then let`s go.”

Maybe when they are back in camp, they will find the time to do something nice together for once. They could arrange another party – music, dancing, more food for everyone. Everyone, from soldiers to commanders, could use a bit of happiness.

They walk through the forest in silence. Fortunately, Drakon`s soldiers like him and are polite enough to ignore the fact that he just vanished. Keir, who has assembled his soldiers by now, sneers at him, though. Miryam gives him a sharp glance and then turns her attention back to Drakon, who orders his soldiers to get moving.

Their sources – also known as enemy soldiers who were tortured for information – claim that Amarantha will march her army west. On the way, she will need to cross a ravine. Drakon discussed the situation with his generals and they decided to plan an ambush at the only bridge in an one-hundred-mile-radius. There, they lay in wait hidden between the trees.

They wait. And wait.

Miryam looks up at the sky. It has been at least three hours now.

“Didn`t you say they`d be here before midday?”, she asks Keir, who is unfortunately sitting with her and Drakon.

“It`s not midday yet, is it?” Keir brushes some dust off his black clothes. Miryam wonders if anyone ever told him that it is a bit over-the-top for Night Court soldiers called Darkbringer so wear all black. “What even is your role here?”

“I`m back-up”, she says. And she really hopes she won`t be needed today.

They sit around some more. Drakon leans against a tree and drums a complicated rhythm on the bark. Keir silently glares at him and Miryam stares up at the sky. Slowly, the sun creeps over the sky.

It has long passed its highest point when Miryam breaks the silence. “They should be here by now.”

This time, Keir doesn`t object.

“I`ll see if I can find anything”, she says.

Unfortunately, she hasn`t brought Kiel, but she finds a hawk in a tree somewhere above them. Miryam easily slips into its body and has it circling above the forest. After ten rounds, she gives up and slips back into her body.

“There is no sign of an army”, she says with a pointed look at Keir, who is smart enough to look worried. “Not within miles.”

“But they have to be somewhere”, Drakon says, “So if they aren`t here, where are they?”

They look at each other. Miryam sees the understanding dawning on Drakon`s face the same moment she realizes their mistake.

“Shit”, Drakon whispers.

“We need to get back to our camp”, Miryam says, “Now.” Even though a small voice in her head whispers that they are likely already too late.

\----

Jurian sits with his back against a tree and watches Clythia brush a few crumbs of cake off her clothes. She brought _cake_ for breakfast. That, and all kinds of other expensive food, most of which Jurian has never seen in his life.

He looks up at the sky. It`s past midday now, which means that the trap Miryam and Drakon laid for Amarantha has likely already been sprung. Maybe the battle is already decided. _And maybe_ , and unbidden voice in his head whispers, _they lost and are both dead by now. And if not in this battle, then in another_. Jurian pushes the thought away.

“You are close, aren`t you?”, he asks, going back to their conversation, “You and your sister.”

“Very. She practically raised me.” She starts playing around with her hair. “Our parents died when I was still young.”

Normally, Jurian would have sympathized with her for this. He also lost his parents early – his mother died in childbed when he was four, his father five years later from a cold. He basically grew up with the rebellion. But this is _Clythia_ he`s talking to, so instead of pity, he feels disgust. He can see her as a slave-owning monster. But if that monster loves her sister and lost her parents, that makes it worse. A monster is monstrous by nature, but a person has a choice – and if Clythia chose to be the way she is, that makes it all the more horrifying.

“And how did you end up in charge of an army?”

“Oh, Mara figured the best way to get power in this world was the military, so I kind of just tagged along. The King would have preferred to have me in court, but that life wasn`t for me. Besides, Mara and I don`t do well apart.”

Jurian nods and tries hard to look like he cares. In truth, he is annoyed. He was meant to get information, damnit, yet here he is, chatting with an enemy commander and having gained exactly nothing. In retrospect, his plan to use Clythia for information doesn`t seem as smart anymore.

Oblivious as always, Clythia continues chatting. “Besides, the military is fun, don`t you think?”

Jurian gives a non-committal shrug. No, he doesn`t think the military is _fun_. What is _wrong_ with her?

“Well, most times”, Clythia continues, “Lately, they had Mara and me training new recruits. The training camp it just horrible. It always rains there – it`s by the coast, you know, in one of Hybern`s wettest areas. Whoever decided to have it built there should be hung.”

Jurian blinks at her. There is no way she is actually this stupid. She did not just give him a major hint on where to find their secret training camp.

“And these recruits.” Clythia rolls her eyes. “You cannot believe how incompetent they are! They can`t even shoot straight.”

_But even they probably wouldn`t be stupid enough to tell an enemy commander about the position of one of their secret camps._ “It takes some time to get them properly trained.”

Clythia nods and stifles a yawn.

“Tired?”, Jurian asks.

She nods. “We spent most of the night marching south.”

A cold feeling settles into Jurian`s stomach. Most of the night. South. Amarantha`s army was not supposed to be marching all night, or south. They should have spent the night at some camp over a hundred miles west from here, and then set off to march east in the morning. If they were on the march all night and in the wrong direction, the trap Miryam and Drakon set failed. And if they aren`t marching east like their reports claimed, then where is it they are going?

The answer hits Jurian like a punch to the gut. _South_. He jumps to his feet.

Clythia`s eyes widen. “Don`t”, she says and thereby confirms his worst fears, “Amarantha promised you`d be fine, but only if you aren`t there.”

Jurian doesn`t listen to her. He races for his horse. The stallion seems to sense his unease, he throws up his head and whines. Jurian jumps into the saddle. He nudges his horse in the side and sends it into a sprint, back towards his camp.

He smells the smoke one mile off already and knows that he is too late. But nothing could have prepared him for what he sees when he reaches the camp.

He wasn`t just too late by minutes but hours. His camp lies in cinders, most of the fires have already burned out, only a few embers still glow faintly. All that`s left of his camp is ashes. Ashes and the corpses of his soldiers. So many corpses lying everywhere.

In a daze, Jurian dismounts. Slowly, he walks through the camp. Stares at the dead humans all around him.

This is a nightmare. It has to be. Any moment now, he`ll wake up, drenched in sweat and screaming. This can`t be real. It can`t.

But he doesn`t wake up. He just keeps walking, staring at the dead soldiers lying on the ground where they were killed. Some of them barely show any injuries at all, others are so mutilated that they are barely recognizable.

Jurian knows most of the dead. They are the soldiers he sat with at the fire in the evening. Soldiers he comforted when they sat shaking after battles. Soldiers he trained. He knows their faces, their names, their stories. All dead now. Gone.

Jurian keeps walking, stumbling through the ashes. He only stops when he reaches the centre of the camp.

Huge stakes have been rammed into the ground in a perfect circle where the centre of the camp should have been. And on them… The bodies that hand on the stakes are so mutilated that they are little more than slabs of meat. Jurian stumbles backwards until he is standing in the centre of the circle. He recognizes Tia first. Then the others – his captains and commanders, the _friends_.

A sob escapes his chest. His legs give out from under him and he drops to his knees into the ashes. There is a low noise, like that of a dying animal, and it takes him a moment to realize that it`s coming from him. It seems that his body already understood the truth his mind is still straining against: This is truly happening.

Time stops moving. Jurian isn`t sure if he`s breathing. His mind appears frozen.

He doesn`t know how long he`s been kneeling on the ground when someone says his name from behind him. Instincts have him jumping to his feet and whirling around.

Drakon, with his ornate uniform and his snow-white white wings looks so out of place between all the death that Jurian just stares at him stupidly for a few heartbeats. It doesn`t make sense that he is here, he doesn`t fit the picture at all.

Drakon takes a step towards him. “Thank the Cauldron, you`re alive. We thought –“

Jurian shoves Drakon backward hard enough to make him stumble. “ _Where were you_?” Drakon lifts his hands like he`s trying to get him to calm down.

“You should have been here!”, Jurian shouts.

He lifts his hands to shove him again, but someone catches his arm.

“Jurian, stop!”, Miryam tells him firmly.

But he can`t stop. He keeps struggling, flailing wildly around. Miryam catches his other arm as well and holds on. No matter how much Jurian struggles against her, she is stronger.

“Jurian.”

He keeps struggling.

“Jurian, stop.”

Jurian stops moving. He looks from Miryam, who still has him grabbed by the wrists, to Drakon, who stands a few steps back and looks like he`s one second away from bolting.

All strength leaves Jurian. He sags against Miryam, who lets him glide to the ground. Suddenly, he is sobbing into her shirt. His body is shaking so hard that he thinks he might fall apart. Miryam whispers something to him and gently rubs his back, but her words don`t register.

“It`s my fault”, he manages to get out between sobs.

He is sure that Miryam objects, but he doesn`t feel inclined to listen. He knows it`s his fault. It was him who insisted Miryam go with Drakon. Maybe if she`d been here, things would have ended differently. And he – he flirted around with an enemy commander while her sister slaughtered his soldiers. If he hadn`t been so stupidly focused on Clythia, he would surely have seen the trap well before it sprung. If it wasn`t for Clythia, none of this would have happened.

Anger shoots through Jurian like a glowing-hot knife. It is even enough to get him to stop crying. He lifts his head.

Miryam is kneeling before him. Her dark eyes are full of concern, but her face is guarded in a way that usually means she doesn`t want anyone to catch her real feelings.

“It wasn`t my fault”, Jurian whispers, voice hoarse, “It was theirs. Amarantha and Clythia.”

With shaking fingers, he fumbles for the knife at his belt and draws it. Miryam frowns slightly, but before she can grab for his hand again, Jurian draws the blade over his palm. She winces.

“I`m going to destroy her”, he whispers and watches his blood drip into the ash-stained ground. “I`m going to destroy both of them. I won`t stop until they are both dead.” He looks around the circle of his dead soldiers and feels a fire flicker to life inside him. “I swear it.”


	31. Chapter 31

## Chapter 31

It takes the Seraphim hours to bury the dead. There is not enough wood for a pyre, so Drakon decides to have the dead buried. A few of his soldiers look at him strangely, but to his knowledge, most humans don`t care about Fae religions or rituals. Hardly any of them believe in gods or an afterlife the way the Fae do, so it makes little difference to them if their bodies get burned or buried.

The hours blend together, as do the faces of the dead. Drakon does his best to memorize them, but it`s a futile task. But there are, of course, the soldiers he knows. Many of them, after spending years together in a camp. Body after body, each mutilated in a different way. Hundreds of corpses lying in a hole in the ground. Just this morning, they were still people – laughing, making plans for a future they would never have.

Drakon has to pause his work thrice to stumble behind a boulder and throw up. His hands are shaking, but he refuses to stop his work. He owes that much to the dead.

When the last body has been cleaned away, the last grave dug, Drakon surveys the burned remains of their camp and decides that, even though the sun has long since set, there is no way they can spent the night here. How could anyone sleep on this burned ground that is still stained with the blood of their dead friends?

So, in spite of the late hour, they pack their things and fly half an hour further west where they set up their camp by a river. Miryam, who looks dead on her feet, sets up a quick perimeter of wards then returns to Jurian, who hasn`t said or done anything since they found him kneeling between his dead soldiers. Drakon wishes he could do anything to help, but as it stands, all he can do is get his soldiers settled.

It is long past midnight when most of them have vanished into the makeshift tents they erected from whatever they could save from their ruined camp. Drakon doesn`t feel like sleeping, so he sits down in front of a lonely camp fire near the centre of the camp. The images of the dead humans keep drifting through his mind. He knows all too well what their last hours must have felt like.

Soft steps sound behind him and Miryam sits down on the ground next to him. Her dark hair is tangled and there`s ash smeared over the left side of her face. She looks completely drained.

“How is he?”, Drakon asks, putting up a sound shield around them.

Miryam shrugs. “I gave him something to help him sleep. He should be out until morning.”

Drakon nods. He knows that sedating Jurian will not stop the pain for him, just delay it. But at least he`ll get a small reprieve.

“And you?”, he asks.

“I can deal with it. It`s worse for Jurian, he knew them longer.”

Drakon has to supress a sigh. That reply is so utterly _typical_. “You`re allowed to be upset, you know. Just because someone else has is worse doesn`t mean you aren`t allowed to feel the way you do.”

“How do _you_ feel, then?”, Miryam asks, “Since you also knew them.”

Could her diversion be any more obvious? “I can`t close my eyes without seeing their corpses. Whenever I`m not imagining what their last minutes must have felt like, I keep thinking that we might have been able to prevent this if we hadn`t been so _stupid_.“ He sighs. “I also threw up. Thrice. And I`m scared to go to bed because I know I`ll have nightmares.” He looks at Miryam. “Your turn.”

“I don`t want to talk about it.”

Drakon honestly has no idea how often he`s heard that of her. Usually, he lets her sort it out with Jurian, who is a bit better at getting her to talk. But this time, Jurian is busy and Drakon doesn`t think that letting Miryam stew over her feelings alone is a good idea.

“Talking is important”, he says and hopes that he doesn`t sound overly preachy. “If you always shove your feelings down, you`ll combust eventually.”

Miryam snorts softly. “Who cares?” She picks up a pebble and throws it into the dark. “There`s no way we`re getting out of this alive, anyways.”

Drakon blinks at her. That`s the most pessimistic he ever heard her. “That`s not true”, he says softly and reaches out and puts a hand on her arm.

“Yes, it is!” She jumps to her feet, brushing his hand away as she does. “We`re already dying – bit by bit, every day.” She makes a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Even if we win, even if we don`t all get killed… Do you really think we`ll just ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after when this is over?” She shakes her head. “There`s no getting back from this. Not in a hundred years.”

She lost hope, Drakon realizes. Miryam may still believe in freedom for her people, and be ready to fight for it, but she lost hope for herself. He refuses to accept that.

“Come on”, he says and gets up. “I want to show you something.”

“No, I-“

“Trust me.”

Miryam doesn`t look convinced, but she follows him out of the camp. Unfortunately, his idea to get out of the camp alone runs into difficulties. Namely the three guards trailing them. Normally, their presence hardly bothers Drakon, but in the sleeping camp, their presence stands out and destroys any illusion of privacy.

Drakon stops walking and waves the guards over. All three of them bow, and the leader, a round-faced female named Yani, asks, “How can we help you, your Highness.”

“Lady Miryam and I would like some privacy”, Drakon says. He doesn`t add that he asked her to call him by his name more times than he can count already.

Yani exchanges a look with her colleagues. “Forgive me, your Highness”, she says, “But General Sinna gave us strict orders not to leave you alone.”

Drakon knows. When he first became Prince, it was easy to slip away from his guards – if there were any around – but since his time in the Black Land, Sinna drastically increased security.

“You work for me, though”, he says. “We`ll be back within two hours.”

Drakon pretends he doesn`t notice that his guards have to consider his orders first before they fall back. As soon as they are out of the wards` perimeter, Drakon holds out a hand to Miryam.

When she hesitates, he says, “You set up the wards. If anything happens, we`ll be back within seconds.”

Miryam sighs and takes the offered hand.

\----

Drakon winnows them to a field just outside of a medium-sized human city. He tugs his wings tightly to his body and leads Miryam towards the gate. The guards squint suspiciously at Drakon, but relax when they see Miryam`s mostly human features.

“What are we doing here?”, Miryam asks softly when the guards have waved them through.

The village doesn`t seem like anything out of the ordinary. Miryam cannot imagine why Drakon would take her here. She`s too drained to care much, though. It`s like someone cut a tether connecting her to the world. She should be furious, or sad, or desperate, but she just feels empty. Except for the power that keeps thrumming through her, only barely controllable anymore.

“I want to show you something”, Drakon says.

Miryam lets him take her by the arm and lead her through the streets towards the town`s centre. She barely notices where they are going until the sound of music makes her perk up. They round a corner and basically stumble into a street festival. Music and laughter fill the air and in the centre of a square, people are dancing in pairs. Miryam stares at the scene, unable to quite process what she`s seeing.

“Look”, Drakon says and nudges Miryam closer. “There are still people who are _alive_ out there. There are people who are dancing and laughing and living. This is what we`re fighting for and _we haven`t lost yet_.”

Miryam looks away. She can`t take this. There are cracks forming in her composure and she fears that if she loses control now, she won`t be able to regain control over her powers. Her hands open and close frantically at her side.

“And we are alive as well”, Drakon continues, “We are alive and I _promise_ that when this is all over, you`ll also get to dance on the street, or do whatever else you want for your life.”

Miryam`s shoulders begin to shake and she quickly wipes the tears away. The music still sounds, people are still dancing. Humans living in freedom. Drakon pulls his arms around her and pulls her close to him. Miryam digs her fingers into his jacket. She is crying so hard her entire body shakes now, and she thinks if it wasn`t for Drakon holding her, she might just get swept away.

Eventually, the tears stop. Miryam carefully lets go of Drakon. She wipes her tears away and straightens. Her face feels puffed up and her throat is sore, but the pressure inside of her has become almost bearable.

“Thank you”, she whispers, “I think I needed that.”

“I think we can stay for a bit. If you want to.”

Of course she wants to. She never wants to go back. That is not possible, she knows, but at least they`ll get a small reprieve. Miryam nods and follows Drakon, who keeps his wings tucked in tightly to his body, towards the celebration. Her eyes flicker over the laughing, happy people. They seem surprisingly unbothered by the Fae in their midst.

“How did you know to come here?”, Miryam asks.

“My soldiers like to go here on their days off. They told me.”

Without needing to talk about it, they decide not to join the dancing, so they end up standing next to a small booth that sells drinks. A human man presses two cups into their hands

“Oh, thank you.” Drakon reaches for his pouch to pay for the drinks, but the man waves him off.

“First drink is free for Alliance soldiers”, he says, “Besides, you two look like you could use it.” He vanishes in the crowd, leaving Drakon looking unhappily at his still-full pouch.

Miryam, on the other hand, notices the ash staining their clothes. She sighs. They must look like they crawled straight out of a grave. She tries to brush the ash off her clothes, but only succeeds in smearing it further.

“Hopeless”, she mutters.

“At least that way, we don`t need to worry about being recognized”, Drakon says with eternal optimism.

They find a bench at the edge of the dancing floor and sit down on it. They aren`t part of the celebration, not really, just spectators. They might as well be in a different world as those people.

Drakon drains his cup quickly, then puts it on the ground next to him. Miryam only takes a sip from her cup, then winces. Horrible.

“I hate alcohol.” She takes another sip, winces again and hands the cup to Drakon. “It tastes terrible, and it makes you lose control over yourself.”

“I believe the latter is part of the charm for most people.” Drakon takes a sip from Miryam`s cup.

She snorts. “Like you need to worry about getting drunk from this.”

To be fair, Miryam as a half-Fae doesn`t get drunk very quickly either. But the mere possibility of getting drunk is enough to completely ruin alcohol for her. Losing control is horrifying, she doesn`t understand why anyone would risk it for fun.

“I still can`t believe it”, Drakon whispers.

Miryam nods without taking her eyes off the dancing people. Don`t think about it. Think about these people who never watched their friends get murdered. Next to her, Drakon starts drumming a quick rhythm on the edge of the bank. He looks upset.

“So”, Miryam says, voice shaking slightly. She desperately fumbles for a different subject. Only one thing comes to her mind. “You should probably talk to Sinna. Your soldiers can`t take her word over yours.”

Drakon makes a face at her, but at least his tapping slows. Politics may not be his favourite subject, but Miryam guesses it`s still better than the memories of their dead friends.

“Sinna is over three hundred years old and has been a soldier for most of that time. I`m not even thirty.” He shrugs. “I`d take her word over mine, too. Any smart person would.”

He generally has a point. But - “Not when they are _your_ soldiers. And most certainly not this publicly.”

Drakon arches an eyebrow. “So, what is it they are saying about me on the Continent that has you so worried about my public appearance? That I`m incompetent?”

“No, not that.” Miryam bites her lip. Normally, she doesn`t tell Drakon about the rumours, but right now, there seems to be no way around it. “With your essays now public, people generally believe you know what you`re talking about. But that doesn`t necessarily mean they also believe that you`re the one making decisions in Erithia. There`s quite a debate to be had on whether it`s your council, your advisors or your military who make the decisions for you, and your aren`t exactly…” She hesitates. “I`m sorry, but things like your conversation with the guards earlier don`t exactly make it seem like they are wrong.”

Drakon changes the rhythm he was drumming. “I`m not making these changes because I`m being manipulated, though”, he says. “I`m _not_.”

“I know that”, Miryam replies without missing a beat. When Drakon gives her a sceptic look, she adds, “Truly. You may not be very suited to international politics, but you`re brilliant at running a country. You`d notice if anyone was manipulating you about any of that.” She gives him a slight smile. “I`m more worried about your appearance. If you let people say you are being manipulates, you allow them to invalidate all the work you are doing.”

Drakon looks rather relieved at that. “So what should I do?”

“You can still listen to your advisors and generals”, Miryam says, “Believe it or not, but most rulers do. The difference is that they ask for advice quietly and then present it as their decision, while you just let other people make the choices for you.” She frowns. “Although I suggest you talk about this to whoever you pay to advise you on foreign politics, and if the answers he gives don`t match mine, have him replaced – he`s either incompetent or purposefully trying to jeopardize you.”

She supposes he could also use a bit more wariness in general when it comes to the members of his council. But she doesn`t say that. Contrary to popular belief, Drakon isn`t naïve – he`s seen far too much evil for that. He chooses to still see only the best in people, and Miryam personally sees that as a strength. She wouldn`t want him to change that.

“Seems doable”, Drakon says, then gives her a smile that only seems a little bit strained. “You certainly are good at changing the subject.” Which, of course, isn`t an attempt on his part to change the subject at all.

“I`ve got lots of practice”, she mutters, which makes Drakon huff a laugh.

They return their attention to the street festival. Now, most of the participants have taken each other by the hands and are dancing around in a huge circle.

“You ever wish we could trade places with them?”, Miryam asks softly. “Live a normal life.”

“Of course”, Drakon says. “What would you do? If it wasn`t for the war and… everything.”

“I think I`d still like to be a healer. Live in a small village. An ordinary life.” Maybe that`s what she`ll do when the war is over. If she survives. “And you?”

“I`d go back to university”, Drakon says without hesitation, “It`s wonderful there. You would like it.”

Miryam nods quietly. She allows herself to dream of the life she might have had a moment longer. But then, she thinks back to her people and straightens. “We should probably go back.”

Drakon nods and gets up. Miryam looks over her shoulder at the dancing people one last time before turning around to leave.

“I suppose you can`t have it both ways”, Drakon says softly as they walk back towards the gate. “You`re either the person dancing through the night – or you`re the one who fights so that dancing will still be possible tomorrow.”

\----

When Jurian wakes up, it takes him a few blissful seconds to remember what happened. But the memories return soon enough, and when they do, he almost wishes he could take more of that sleeping tunic and fall back into oblivion. He nearly asks Miryam, who is sitting cross-legged on the ground next to him, for one – after all, what does he need to be awake for now, anyways? – but then, he remembers Amarantha and Clythia. The vow he made.

He sits up too quickly and his head starts to spin. Miryam reaches out to steady him.

“Easy”, she says, “You`re safe.”

“You think I give a shit?”, Jurian snaps. His voice is hoarse and sounds off in his own ears. He pushes her arm away and stands up – with the success that he immediately falls back over.

“Give yourself a moment”, Miryam says. Her tone is still gentle.

Jurian lets himself fall back onto the blanket he was lying on. “Sorry”, he mutters.

Miryam shrugs. “I understand.”

Jurian carefully pulls himself up into a sitting position and Miryam moves closer until they are almost touching. For a while, they sit together in silence.

“When we arrived in the camp”, Miryam finally says, breaking the silence, “when we saw it destroyed, I thought…” She rubs her hands over her face. “Maybe it is selfish to say, since so many died, but I`m still happy you`re alive.”

Jurian can almost hear the questions behind her words. _But how? How come you survived while everyone else died. Where_ were _you while your soldiers got murdered?_

“I wasn`t in the camp when… it happened”, Jurian says. _I was meeting with Clythia behind your back. While our friends were slaughtered, I sat and ate cake with a Hybern commander._

But his tongue won`t form the words. He closes his eyes. _Tell her!_ He needs to tell her the truth now, he owes her that much. As of yet, he hasn`t really done anything wrong in that regard – he always meant to tell her once his meeting with Clythia was over. He needs to tell her now, and everything will be fine. But he keeps imaging the look in her eyes when she hears what he was doing.

“I…”, he begins. How can things between them ever be the same again if he tells her the truth now? “I went one a ride.” The words slip out involuntarily, without his permission. “I needed a moment alone.”

His heart races. There`s no way Miryam will believe him, she is almost impossible to lie to. Why didn`t he tell the truth? She`ll find out anyways, and him trying to lie will just make it worse. He lowers his head.

Miryam gently puts her hand on his. “It wasn`t your fault”, she says, “Even if you had been there, you couldn`t have saved them. You would have just died alongside them.”

Jurian blinks, too stunned to speak. It wasn`t even that good a lie, there`s no way she fell for that. And yet… The realization hits like a knife to the gut. Miryam doesn`t catch his lie because she doesn`t even consider the possibility that he might be telling anything but the truth. After all, he never lied to her before.

He wishes she had doubted his words. That would have made it more bearable.

“I should have been there”, he whispers, voice breaking. That, at least, is true no matter what.

Miryam just wraps her arms around him and pulls him close. Jurian lets her.

He doesn`t know how long they`ve been sitting like this when the door bursts open. “Oh.” Drakon stops in the entrance.

“What do you want?”, Jurian snaps. He doesn`t know why he`s suddenly angry.

“Sorry.” Drakon lifts his hands, like in surrender. “I should have knocked.” He throws Miryam a letter. “The council wants to see you. I`d say they are asking, but it`s more of a summon.” He turns to Jurian and adds more softly, “I`m glad you`re awake. And, well, alive.”

“Because that`s the most important thing, right?” Jurian scoffs.

“I`m sorry”, Drakon repeats. “I can imagine how you must feel.”

“Oh, can you?” Jurian pushes Miryam`s arm off and climbs to his feet. “Because _your_ soldiers didn`t get slaughtered. They weren`t even in the camp, were they?”

“Are you blaming me for what happened?”, Drakon asks softly. He still doesn`t sound angry, which just pisses Jurian off more. Drakon and his eternal kindness – doesn`t he _realize_ that they`re at war?

“Just stating facts. Because somehow, it`s never _your_ people who have to pay the price, is it. And if we lose this war, it won`t be your people who end up enslaved, either. You`ll get out of this perfectly fine, right? They`ll probably even let you keep your title.”

“Jur…”, Miryam whispers.

Drakon just stares at him, lips pressed into a tight line.

Jurian laughs. “Must be fun, to fight a war knowing that the results will never really affect you. One of the advantages of being Fae, I suppose.”

“Stop it!”, Miryam all but shouts and jumps to her feet. “What are you _doing_?” Shaking her head, she looks between Jurian and Drakon. “Isn`t it bad enough already?” Her voice shakes like she`s about to cry. “Thousands of people are _dead_. We`re all that`s left, and if we start to argue amongst ourselves…”

Jurian stares down at his feet. His anger evaporates, leaving him feeling drained and terrible. Not only did he lose his soldiers, now he also picked a fight with Drakon and made Miryam upset.

“Sorry”, he mutters.

“I`m sorry, too”, Drakon says, “About what happened to your soldiers – and that we weren`t there to prevent it.”

Jurian nods, and that is that. Argument settled, but not really. Miryam looks between them, frowning.

“You need to go to your meeting”, Jurian reminds her.

“Do you want me to come?”, Drakon offers.

Jurian has to bite his tongue to keep from saying something about how he doubts that would be very helpful. Damnit, what is _wrong_ with him? It`s like all that`s left is anger, and without anywhere for it to go, he lashes out at anyone who happens to be close. He needs something to direct his anger at, or he fears he might combust and take everyone close to him down with him.

“I received intelligence about the possible location of one of Hybern`s training camps”, he says to Drakon, without really looking at him. “If we manage to find the exact location, we might be able to pay those bastards back in kind.”

\----

Miryam`s formal dresses burned together with the camp, so she still wears her ash-stained tunic and pants when she goes to meet the council. She is early for the meeting and only a few of the other councilmembers are there, but they all stare at Miryam`s appearance. She ignores the looks.

Not finding a set of change clothes was a somewhat risky choice, but Miryam decides it`s fitting. Appearing in immaculate clothes after what happened in the last hours would have seemed tasteless. Miryam is just about to take her seat when a hand closes around her arm. She stiffens – she hates being touched without permission – but makes herself turn around slowly. He magic stirs, but she shoves it back down.

“My Lord”, she greets the High Lord of the Night Court.

“May I have a word, _Lady_ Miryam?” His voice is tense and he all but drags her out of the room without waiting for a reply.

“I would appreciate”, she hisses and rips her arm out of his grip, “a little more common courtesy.”

He holds open the door to one of the smaller meeting rooms for her and lets her in with a mock bow. Miryam glares and demonstratively rubs her wrist, where his fingers are sure to leave bruises. Still, the High Lord doesn`t apologize as he closes the door behind them and sets up wards with the wave of a hand. Miryam tries very hard not to be nervous.

“We need to talk”, the High Lord says.

“If this is about Keir –“

“I know you`re planning to shift the blame for your failure on him. I would do the same, in your position. Still, I`d suggest you take a different route.”

“No.” Miryam takes back a step so that she no longer has to look _up_ at him quite so obviously. “Over three thousand soldiers got killed in a single night, all because _your_ commander went against Alliance directives to torture a group of enemy soldiers and then presented the information he got as sound intelligence. The blame for this lies with him, and I`ll make sure he gets what he deserves.”

“How righteous of you. And how practical that this way, you shift the blame well away from yourself and your friends. Even though it was your fault as well, wasn`t it?”

Yes, it was. But that won`t be the public version. “If Keir hadn`t supplied incorrect information”, she says flatly, “none of this would have happened.”

“And if you make it public, his behaviour will fall back on _me_.” When Miryam only arches an eyebrow at him, he steps closer. “So don`t make it public.”

Miryam makes herself laugh. “Just like that? You argue against me in almost every meeting, and now, you expect me to do you a huge favour?”

“You don`t want me as your enemy”, he warns.

He`s standing so close now that her every instinct screams at her to run. Instead, she slowly steps back and reaches for the handle of the door. The High Lord`s wards crack under her touch and she pulls the door open.

“So you keep saying”, she says, “but the more I think about it, the more I feel like _you_ are the one who doesn`t want _me_ as your enemy.”

With that, she walks out of the room and towards the council chamber. There, Andromache has arrived by now. She drops all pretence when she sees Miryam and hugs her in front of the entire council.

“Are you okay?”, she asks, “Jurian? Drakon?”

“Yes.” None of them are anywhere near okay, but at least they are alive. “None of us were in the camp when it happened.”

“And I think we`d all like to know the reason for that”, Nakia says from her seat at the table.

“We received faulty information”, Miryam says, taking her seat. Then, she briefly outlines what happened yesterday, making sure to place as much blame of possible on Keir.

By the time she is finished, most of the councilmembers are frowning. Unfortunately, more than one of them seem to direct their ire at Miryam. Zeku softly shakes his head at her.

“Yet I have to wonder”, one of the Fae says, “how none of you noticed the trap.”

“We received the intelligence from the council”, Miryam replies, “We believed it had been verified and followed the orders we`d been given.”

Nakia surprises her by nodding. “No point arguing about it now”, she says gruffly. “The damage is done. I suggest we start dealing with the aftermath.”

In the end, of course, someone still has to get punished – but that someone ends up being Keir, who gets stripped of his army command. His High Lord glares at Miryam. Otherwise, it is decided that Jurian will be put in charge of training new recruits and making them into a new army. After that is settled, they mercifully decide to end the meeting.

Most of the other councilmembers don`t leave immediately, so Miryam also remains sitting for a while. She can`t vanish immediately after each meeting.

Zeku leans against the table next to her. “My condolences”, he says.

“Thank you.”

Zeku remains sitting on the table and watches her. Silently.

“Was there something else?”, Miryam asks when she has enough from his staring.

Zeku seems to consider, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Just… are you sure you know what you`re doing here, Miryam?”

She tenses. She thinks back to the warning he gave her months ago and tries not to make her worry too obvious. She must have made some kind of mistake – maybe she didn`t shift the blame for their away successfully enough. This is bad. Her standing with the council is all that gives her the power to influence where this war is going. She needs to find a way to fix this, and quickly. If she can manage, with her losing control over her magic more and more each day.

“I`m just trying to free my people”, she says softly. “That`s all I want. All I`m fighting for.”

Zeku watches her for a moment longer, then he nods and jumps off the table. “Be careful”, he tells her and walks off to join one of his Fae allies.

Miryam looks after him and tries to ignore the sinking feeling that she completely missed what he was trying to warn her about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably already guessed it, but things are going downhill from here. There will also be another time jump between this chapter and the next. Oh, and Mor will play a larger role again in the next arc. I haven't forgotten about her, her pov just didn't fit into this arc.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than usual. I considered splitting it, but it felt more coherent as one part, so I left it like this. And after the last chapters, I did my best to make this a bit happier (at least in parts)

## Chapter 32

In the next months, life once again proves its uncaring ability to go on no matter what. In the scope of a war that spans an entire Continent, a few thousand dead soldiers are as inconsequential as the pain they cause the ones who survive. But to the lives of the people who were affected by these deaths, they are anything but.

Ironically enough, the next months go well for the Alliance. Jurian spends most of the time rebuilding his army from scratch. The number of new recruits is staggering, and within one months, they are back to their old number. With the newly-trained soldiers, they even win a few victories against to Loyalists. It helps that Jurian has a new spy, whose identity he refuses to disclose, but who brings invaluable information. Meanwhile, Drakon finds a way to work with his advisors that doesn`t look quite so much like he`s being manipulated. And Miryam… well, she manages to avoid any larger catastrophes with the council. Or with herself.

But while things may get better for the Alliance, nothing really improves for their little friendship group. For the first weeks, Miryam tries to ignore the changes in Jurian, but after a while, there is no denying it anymore. He grows harder. Colder. It`s like some spark in him went out. His smiles grow rare, laughs even rarer. When he isn`t busy training his new recruits, he pours over maps in his tent. Whenever Amarantha or Clythia are mentioned, cold rage flickers in his eyes.

Miryam worries about him. And she worries about herself. Lately, her power doesn`t just push and pull at her, there are moments when she actually _loses_ control. Four times now, she had to rush out of the camp, away from anyone who might see, because she could not hold it in anymore.

It seems like today will be the fifth time. Standing in the war tent, Miryam does her best to focus on what Jurian is telling them. His spy sent some intelligence about Amarantha`s supply routes, and he`s hoping to intercept them. Miryam _should_ be listening, but her focus keeps slipping. She tries every trick she knows – breathes in deeply, digs her nails into her leg, counts backwards from thousand. Nothing helps. It`s like she`s caught in quicksand and the harder she struggles, the further it pulls her down.

“Maybe we could lay a trap here”, one of Jurian`s new commanders says and taps the map. Jurian nods in approval and the discussion continues.

Miryam takes a shuddering breath. The ground seems to shift under her feet. She needs to get out of here. So far, she managed to keep her problems secret, but if she loses control in the middle of a strategy meeting, the council will know within the hour.

She jumps to her feet so abruptly that every eye around the table turns to her. “I have a meeting to attend”, she says as calmly as she can manage, “You`ll excuse me.”

By the time Miryam stalks out of the tent, Jurian has already returned his attention to the maps. Miryam walks through the camp as quickly as she can without running. The human soldiers stop and stare at her as she walks by, a few incline their heads. Their old soldiers were her friends - they were the people she sat with by the fire, the people who told her jokes and shared food with her. She likes the new recruits, but they are distant with her. They treat her with reverence, not friendship.

She`s almost out of the camp now. The ground seems to slip under her feet and she nearly stumbles. The guards wave her through and Miryam stumbles through the light birch forest they made their camp in, away from where her soldiers might see.

Somehow, she manages to get a safe distance away from the camp before her legs give out from under her. She falls to her knees on the ground and finally loosens her grip on her power. But letting go doesn`t truly offer relief. Without anywhere to go, her power rushes through the air, shoots into the ground and then back into Miryam. It shoots through her, burning like fire. She has to press a fist against her mouth to muffle her scream. Why does it _hurt_ so much?

She doesn`t know how long she kneels on the ground, gasping for air, trying not to scream. An eternity passes, or maybe it is just a second. But eventually, her power calms down. Miryam lets herself sink to the ground and wipes the sweat from her forehead.

“Shit”, she mutters towards the sky.

“Can I do anything to help?”

Miryam screams and bolts upright. “Cauldron, Drakon!”

“Sorry.” He winces and carefully steps closer. “I wanted to help, but…” He trails off. “Do you need anything.”

Miryam shakes her head. Her head is pounding, her entire body hurts, but there`s little to be done. “It will go away eventually.”

“So that wasn`t the first time?”

Miryam runs her fingers over the ground. Cracks have formed in the earth, leading away from her like little bolts of lightning. The biggest is five centimetres wide. She supposes that she`ll have a hard time denying that anything bad happened now.

“The fifth”, she replies quietly.

Drakon curses. “ _Miryam_. Why didn`t you say anything?”

The deep worry in his tone surprises Miryam. And scares her, to be honest. It isn`t unusual for her to be in pain after having to use her powers in battle, and Drakon never sounded this worried about it.

"Do you know anything about this?", Miryam asks, countering his question with one of her own.

Drakon shrugs. "A little. I had tutors on magic when I was a child and they liked to warn about what might happen if I didn`t pay attention and failed to learn how to properly control my powers. But air magic is one if the easier ones to master, and I'm not that powerful, so I never truly had problems."

Miryam tries to tell herself that whatever warnings Drakon`s teachers gave him were just an attempt to get a child to take his lessons seriously. But somehow, she can`t quite manage to convince herself.

"But I have a friend who studies magic", Drakon continues, "He might be able to help."

Miryam is already shaking her head before he finished the sentence. "No. Most certainly not. Do you have any idea what it will do to my standing in the council if this becomes public?"

"This is serious, Miryam", Drakon says. When she just crosses her arms, he sighs. “I swear that my friend will keep your secret.”

Miryam rubs her hand over her arm. She is so damned tired.

"How well do you know your friend?”, she asks and privately thinks that if they`ve been friends for over two years, she`ll take the risk.

"Oh, I'd hope I know him very well, since we were together for three years."

“Kiko?”, Miryam asks. As far as he knows, he was Drakon`s first and only romantic partner so far. “I thought he studied social sciences as well.”

“No, his subject were magical studies. He specializes in Elemental Powers, but he`d also have learned something about Higher Powers.”

Miryam smiles, mentally readjusting the image she had of Drakon`s former partner. It isn`t that she knew much about him in the first place, but she knows Drakon writes him letters at least once a month, and still talks of him fondly.

“How did you meet, then?”, she asks, “Since you wouldn`t have had the same classes.”

“My class had the task to organize social projects in a nearby city. He blew up his lab and was assigned volunteer work as punishment, so he ended up working on the project I lead. And don`t think I didn`t notice you changing the subject.” Drakon runs his fingers over the ground, where a long crack has formed. “Please”, he says, “At least give it a try.”

Miryam makes a face at him. “Fine.”

At least if it`s Kiko they`re meeting, she knows that Drakon knows him well. Chances of her secret getting out are slim. The risk is within reason.

Drakon perks up. “Really?”

“I`m probably going to regret this”, Miryam mutters, “but yes. Besides, I always wanted to see university.”

And maybe she is more scared of what`s happening to her than she thought, if she is willing to take the risk.

\----

Mor is happy. It is ridiculous, she knows. Around her, the world is burning, yet she has never felt more like herself than in the last year. Especially right now.

Together with Adromache, she sits huddled around a campfire in Andromache`s camp, both of them wrapped tightly into a blanket. It is winter, and Andromache`s army has been stationed further north these past few weeks, so it`s freezing cold. Mor doesn`t much mind the temperatures. The Illyrian mountains get just as cold, and the temperatures give her an excuse to sit closer to Andromache.

Mor runs a hand through Andromache`s hair. Even after all these moths, she still can`t quite believe it.

“I have to go to Telique tomorrow”, Andromache tells her and absentmindedly turns the stick she`s using to roast a loaf of bread over the fire in her hands. “I`ll probably be gone for most of the day.”

Mor frowns. “I haven`t heard of any Alliance meeting.”

“No, it`s just the human queens. A…”, she frowns, “A strategy discussion, you could say.”

“Oh, another one of your secret humans-only meetings?”

Andromache jerks away from her, eyes widening in surprise. “What… how…”, she sputters.

“Az told me”, Mor says, “He had to find out for my uncle, but I think most of the Alliance knows.”

Andromache groans and rubs her temple. “So much for our attempts at secrecy. In that case: Yes, we`re holding one of our humans-only meetings, as you call them.”

Mor pulls her stick out of the fire and carefully takes a bite of the bread. It is so hot it burns her tongue and she curses softly.

“I suppose I shouldn`t ask you what you`re going to discuss.”

Andromache smiles wryly. “Might be for the best.”

Mor nods. She`s curious, of course. But Andromache is a queen with a duty to both her country and her people. Asking her after information that the human leadership has deemed secret would mean to ask her to choose Mor over that duty. And since Mor loves her, she`d never ask her to make that choice.

“I also have a meeting. With my uncle”, she says instead.

“Ugh.” Andromache reaches for the wine bottle standing next to her and passes it to Mor.

She laughs. “At least he likes me better than Rhys. Although that’s probably because I’m not a danger to his throne. Unlike Rhys, being his heir and all.”

Andromache shakes her head. “You Fae and your obsession with bloodlines and such things. I personally find it much smarter to have the ruler adopt the person they deem most suited to taking the throne, no blood relations required.”

Mor nods. She finds the human rule of having rulers pick their own successor, possibly also from adopted family, fascinating. Not that it could ever work in Prythian, where the power chooses the next ruler, but it still seems like an intelligent system. But well, most things the humans doo seem more intelligent than how Fae act.

She takes a swig from the bottle, then puts an arm around Andromache. “Either way, it looks like we’ll both need a drink tomorrow evening.”

Andromache laughs and leans against her. Right now, sitting by the fire together, Mor would like to freeze time and live in this moment forever. She smiles into Andromache’s hair and pulls her a little closer, thinking just how lucky she is to have this.

Mor leaves the camp early in the next morning to go meet her uncle. This time, at least, he didn`t demand she come visit him in the Hewn City. With the war escalating further each day, even the High Lord of the Night Court can`t constantly remain in his seat of power. He spent the past few days in one of the Illyrian camps where the soldiers gave him trouble, and that is where she is asked to meet him.

The camp is hundreds of miles further south, and Mor opens her fur-laced cloak almost as soon as she lands. The Illyrian soldiers watch her wearily, but they don`t try to approach her. It is a well-known fact that both the High Lord and his son like Mor, and that makes her untouchable to them.

Mor finds her uncle in the commander`s tent, eating a breakfast better suited to a palace than a war camp.

“Ah, Morrigan”, he greets her and gestures to an empty chair with his fork. “Sit. Have you eaten?”

“No, My Lord.” He wordlessly dumps some fried eggs on her platter and Mor smiles. “Thank you.”

“So, tell me”, he says and takes a bite of his eggs. “what news does the Continent have?”

“Nothing much”, Mor says, then begins to rattle off a few basic rumours she heard. Who got into an argument with whom, which Alliance members might be thinking of forging a new alliance.

“And your friend Andromache?”, her uncle asks, “Still dangling around with that guard of hers?”

“That`s a rumour”, Mor says, trying to sound as annoyed as possible.

The truth is, Andromache and her _started_ that rumour. Well, Andromache`s spymaster did, but she gave the order. Andromache came up with the idea. She thought that the perfect way to keep rumours about a relationship between them from spreading was to start a rumour that she was in a relationship with someone else. The guard she asked for the favour is an old friend of hers, who`s currently uninterested in relationships and didn`t mind helping out.

The High Lord nods and returns to his food. Mor takes a small bite of her food and watches him over it. She wishes he`d just dismiss her and let her return to Andromache`s camp.

“What do you know about Miryam?”

Mor perks up. “What?” She catches herself. “What I _know_ about her? She`s my –“ She remembers that her uncle can`t stand Miryam and catches herself before she can say _friend_. “I know her well.”

“Does she have any secrets?”

“No”, Mor replies automatically, which is, of course, a lie. “Why are you asking?”

“She annoys me.” He shrugs. “I think she`s an arrogant, stupid child who, through sheer dumb luck, got into a position she has no right to. And I`d like her to _lose_ this position.” He smiles. “But since you know her so well, I find I have a hard time believing your _no_.”

Mor shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Well, all of her secrets are connected to her past. And I doubt it will work in your favour if you bring that up.”

The High Lord mutters a curse. “And Jurian?”

“No secrets that I know of”, Mor says, which is actually true.

The High Lord stabs his sausage with way more force than necessary. “Everyone has secrets”, he says, “It`s just a matter of finding them.” To Mor, he adds, “You`re dismissed.”

\----

Jurian watches Miryam as she sketches the final symbol on a doorway, then steps back. The symbol glows and sinks into the wood, Miryam brushes the chalk off her hands.

“I wonder”, she mutters, “why we have to hold each of these meetings in a different location. I have to set new wards every time.”

“Secrecy reasons”, Jurian says and twirls his knife around his finger once.

Miryam makes a face at him. “I’d like to see the spy who gets through these wards.”

Jurian just shrugs. In his opinion, it’s better to be safe then sorry, and the more human palaces have wards, the better. With how the war is going, you never know when you might need them.

Outside, the sun is already beginning to set. Jurian sighs. He wishes the meeting they are about to attend was already over and he back in his camp. He still has an attack on Amarantha’s supply routes to plan, the information for it supplied by Clythia, who still hasn’t made the connection between her meetings with Jurian and the fact that intel about her army keeps getting out.

“It’s almost time for the meeting”, Miryam says, “We should go if we don’t want to be late.”

Jurian doesn’t particularly care about being late, but he still follows her. The meeting is held in one of the palace’s highest rooms. It has huge, open windows overlooking a small port city and the bay beyond. The windows aren’t filled with glass, but this is one of the human settlements furthest south, and even in deep winter, the temperatures are mild. Jurian sits down in a cushioned chair while Miryam walks over to greet Andromache.

Sighing, Jurian stares down at his shoes. He hates sitting around like this, doing nothing while outside, the war rages on. He hates these useless, stupid meetings where people only talk but never see to say anything and they can spend hours discussing without coming to a conclusion. Just the thought of spending the next hours sitting around in this chamber makes him furious.

But of course, Jurian if furious more often than not lately.

Finally, the meeting starts. Indeed, they spent more than half an hour discussing the current state of the war, as if they aren’t all fighting it every day.

“Things have been looking better”, Andromache finally summarizes the situation, “but we’re still losing.”

Jurian bristles. “We won’t lose. Not while I have anything to say about it.”

“If we do lose”, one of the other commanders says, “you might be dead, anyways. So in that case, you _wouldn’t_ have anything to say about it.” Jurian just glares.

“Miryam”, Andromache says, “how is that spell you were working on coming along?”

“Not good.” Miryam sighs. “I’ve been stuck for these past months.”

“Or maybe you just haven’t been trying very hard”, Nakia says. When Miryam starts to object, she cuts her off. “After all, what do you care about other people, as long as _yours_ get freed?”

Jurian glares at her over the table. He’s angry at her, too. Although he has to admit that Miryam hasn’t been working on the spell as hard as she could have been, for reasons Jurian doesn’t entirely understand

“Unlike you”, Miryam says, “I care about all humans, not just a group of them.”

Nakia jumps to her feet, but Andromache takes her by the arm and pushes her back down.

“That’s enough. Nakia, for the last time, stop implying that Miryam doesn’t care about humans outside of the Black Land. It’s ridiculous and you know it. Miryam, the same goes for you. We’re all on the same side here.”

Miryam presses her lips together. “I can create wards that hold off an enemy army for a few hours”, she says, “But _you_ are asking for a spell that effectively cleaves the world in two and is able to hold off against any and all Fae for eternity! Do you even realize…” She shakes her head, and when she continues, her voice trembles slightly. “You demand the impossible. And when I cannot do it, you accuse me of failing on purpose. This isn’t _fair_.”

Andromache sighs. “No one truly believes that.” She looks at Nakia, who is glaring at her fingers. “Not even Nakia. Tensions are just running a little high for everyone, that’s all.” She turns back to Miryam. “And no one here expects the impossible. But you know how dangerous our situation is – you know better than anyone here what will happen to us if we lose. So I’m begging you to keep trying.”

Miryam fiddles around with her sleeves. “Of course I’ll try”, she says and Andromache moves the subject to different matters.

When the meeting is finally over, Miryam rushes out of the room and Jurian is quick to follow her.

“No one thinks that”, he says while they walk through the halls, “You know that no one thinks that.” But he can’t quite stop himself from adding, “But you have to admit that you haven’t exactly been doing your best.”

Miryam whirls around to him. There is true hurt in her eyes, and Jurian curses himself for not being able to keep his mouth shut. If there was ever a time not to bring this up, it is now.

“I’m not saying you didn’t try”, he says, “Just that, considering how precarious this situation is, I thought you would have been… you know…” _trying harder_.

“Sure.” Miryam rubs a hand over her face. “It’s only one of the most complicated spells I’ve ever heard off. Surely I must only _try harder_ if I want to come up with a solution. Because it’s _that_ easy.”

Jurian sighs. Now he just made it worse. “I’m sorry”, he says, “I didn’t mean that. I don’t really know that much about magic, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Miryam nods. “I’m going to university with Drakon tomorrow”, she says, “Maybe they have some texts or… something.”

“What are you doing at university?”

“You know how I’ve been having a little trouble with my powers lately? Drakon thought the university might have some information about it.” She turns to Jurian and manages a smile. “You could come along if you want to. I’d be happy to have you there.”

Jurian would love to say yes. But the very idea of spending an entire day with running around some university for rich Fae children disturbs him. He already lost one day – wasting another seems irresponsible. He has a war to fight, and two Hybern generals to kill. And if he’s honest, this entire visit seems far too _Fae_ for his liking, anyways.

“I’m sorry”, he says, feeling terrible about himself because it is not Miryam he’s trying to refuse. “Things at camp have been terribly busy. If we want to pull that attack on Amarantha’s army off, I can’t be gone tomorrow. But I’m sure you’ll have fun with Drakon.”

“Of course. We probably shouldn’t leave the camp without a commander anyways.” Her smile is almost convincing. But only almost.

Jurian reaches for her hand. “But we can for a ride. After our raid. We haven’t had time alone together in a while.”

Miryam looks relieved enough that Jurian feels even worse about himself. “I’d like that”, she says, and this time, her smile actually looks real.

\----

Miryam and Drakon set out three days later. At Sinna`s insistence, they are accompanied by two guards – although officially, taking the guard`s was Drakon`s decision. He winnows all of them to a well-kept lawn just within the university grounds. A few of the guards employed by the university look at them sharply, before one of them recognizes Drakon and inclines his head. Drakon nods back at him.

Meanwhile, Miryam is too busy staring at their surroundings to notice the guards. Drakon smiles at her, remembering his reaction to first seeing the university. Built in the centre of the Continent, it is almost like a small city in itself. The centre is made up of the university complex – libraries, laboratories, offices and lecture halls – but around it, there are normal houses and workshops mostly catering to the university.

"Beautiful", Miryam whispers.

Drakon nods. "The buildings are over a thousand years old. The university itself is far older, but it was burned down once and had to be rebuild." He points ahead to a huge wooden building that towers over the rest of the city. "The library is over there. It's where we'll meet Kiko."

His guards fall back and a few metres as they start walking and stay far enough behind that they likely won't be able to hear their conversation. Miryam absentmindedly links her arm with Drakon`s, but keeps looking around at the university buildings.

“It`s all wood”, she says, amazement colouring her voice.

“It was the style at the time. Well, at least here.”

Miryam nods. One of the buildings, a fragile-looking clocktower, catches her attention and Drakon has to tug her aside to stop her from running into a faerie who`s standing by the road. She turns around to smile at him, more freely than she has in a while. Drakon doesn`t know why, but his cheeks heat and he quickly looks away.

"I just wish Jurian had come along", Miryam says softly. "Getting out of camp for a bit might have been good for him."

Drakon nods, and turns back to Miryam, whose smile has dimmed considerably. They both spent the last months worrying about Jurian. Drakon wishes he could do more to help, but things between him and Jurian have been difficult lately, and the worst part is that he doesn`t even know _why_. It`s like from one day to another, Jurian decided that he doesn`t particularly care for Drakon`s company anymore. Even his refusal to accompany them on their trip today seemed to be aimed mostly at him.

Normally, he would have assumed that he`s seeing things, but when he asked Miryam about it, she shared his opinion. Although she didn`t know the reasons behind Jurian`s behaviour either. She offered to ask, but relying on Miryam to solve the problems between him and Jurian would just make him feel like he`s too much of a coward to do it himself.

“Does Jurian know why we`re here?”, Drakon asks.

“I`m not keeping this secret from him.” She shrugs. “He knows I have trouble with controlling my power sometimes, and that we`re asking a friend of yours for advice.”

Drakon frowns at her. Somehow, he finds it hard to believe that Jurian would have stayed behind if he truly knew why they were here. Jurian may not be interested in visiting a Fae library, but he cares about Miryam more than about anything else and the idea that he`d not at least try to help her with a problem like this seems outlandish.

“And you`re sure you told him how serious this is?”

Miryam suddenly finds huge interest in a smaller building to their left. She carefully studies it, then asks, “Is that a tavern? I thought this was a university.”

“ _Miryam_.”

“It`s not…” She sighs and turns around to face Drakon. “I told him the _truth_. I just don`t see the point in exaggerating a problem and giving him one more thing to worry about when he can`t do anything about it anyways.”

Drakon does see the point in it. He sees several points, actually, and is about to tell Miryam as much when they get interrupted by a Fae male with colourful butterfly wings.

“Ah, Drakon”, he says and reaches for his hand. “It’s so good to see you. How are you?”

“Well. And you, professor?”, Drakon asks, trying to sound polite, but not overly cheerful.

Professor Niko taught two of his classes in his second and third year at university and him and Drakon never quite got along. He once had Drakon fail an assignment just because their opinions didn’t match. But him now being Prince seems to have increased the professor’s opinion of him, which only makes Drakon like him less.

“Oh, I can’t complain.” He smiles at Drakon. “I’ve read your papers. Good work as always. Although I do find a few of your arguments a little… extreme.”

“What is extreme about saying humans should be equal to Fae?”, Miryam cuts in, frowning lightly.

The professor turns to Miryam, seemingly only noticing her now. “And you must be Lady Miryam”, he says, “Well, I can imagine why you’d say that. Although even you must admit that Fae have certain inherent advantages over you mortals.”

“No, I do not see it that way at all”, Miryam says in a tone that dares him to argue.

“And if you’d ever talk to a human”, Drakon adds, “you might find you agree with her.” His cheeks are burning. “But as it is, Miryam and I have to be off.” He takes her by the arm and leads her away. As soon as they are out of hearing range, he sighs. “Sorry. That was… He’s from Rask, you see. You know that I don’t agree with that.”

“I know that”, Miryam says, “Just… are there slaves in this city?”

“No. Slavery has been prohibited on university grounds for millennia.” He hesitates. “Although the university doesn’t accept human students either.”

Miryam sighs – and changes the subject. “They don`t seem bothered by your new status.”

Drakon feels like he should say something more on the university’s leaning on slavery, but if Miryam decides not to pursue the subject, that’s her choice to make.

“Royalty isn`t as uncommon here as you`d think”, he says, “Most nobles, including royals, want their children to get the best education, and that means either this university, or the one in the Black Land. Most prefer this one, though, because it`s independent.”

Some extremely smart person decided millennia ago that education shouldn`t be tied to one single state, so he arranged for a small bit of land around the centre of the Continent to be made into neutral ground and to build a university there. The obvious flaw in that arrangement is that the university now has to cover its expenses from the money students pay, which effectively bars most people from attending.

“So this is where rich Fae families send their children to make useful connections for later?”, Miryam asks

Drakon winces. “Basically. Although there are even divisions between individual classes. Lower-ranking nobles generally go into social studies or sciences and hope for a seat on a ruling council. Well, or military. Royal children are generally expected to go either into politics or the military." He shrugs with an indifference he doesn’t quite feel. "My father always wanted me to go into politics. But well, I failed in the lessons, and since my father had little patience for useless things, he had me try military next."

"Even if you don't excel at lessons, they are hardly useless", Miryam objects.

"Well, I wasn't referring to the lessons." Miryam`s expression shifts from confused to upset, and he quickly adds, “We both know I`m hopeless at politics. Anyways, my father thought that at least I`d prove to be somewhat brilliant in military matters, so he sent me off to train under Sinna. But I guess I didn`t have any particular talent for that either, so when I was nineteen – after five years of trying – Sinna convinced my father to send me to university.”

Miryam stops walking to stare at him. He doesn`t understand what her problem is, until she says very softly, “Your father sent you to join the military at _fourteen_?”

“I don`t think you understand how embarrassing it is for a Continental ruler to have a child that completely fails at politics.” Miryam continues staring at him, and Drakon awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to another. “It`s not like there were any battles at the time. But after a few years at university, my father decided I was at least good enough at what I was doing that he could give me a seat on his council. Well.” He winces. “Until the matter with Ravenia, of course.”

Miryam stares at him for another uncomfortable moment, then continues walking. “Your father sounds horrible.”

Drakon is too surprised to say something at first. He just stares at her. But then, he catches himself and vehemently shakes his head. “No. _No_ , he isn`t. Wasn`t, I mean. He was a good person.”

Miryam arches an eyebrow at him. “He sent you, his own child, off to the military at fourteen and sold you to Ravenia ten years later.”

“No, it`s…”, Drakon stammers. He hates the way Miryam says it, how she makes what his father did sound terrible and heartless. “It`s not like that at all. And please stop looking at me like you feel bad for me. You’re the last person who should feel bad for me for that!”

Miryam presses her lips together. “Bad childhoods aren`t a competition.”

“I didn`t have a bad childhood! And I loved my father.” _And I got him killed_ , he adds silently.

Miryam looks at him like she very badly wants to argue, but bites her tongue at the last moment. Instead, she nods towards the towering building before them.

“Is that the library?”

Drakon nods and tries hard to push his thoughts away from his dead family and what they might think of him now. He makes to step through the library`s huge doors, but one of the guards in fronts stops him with an outstretched hand.

“No weapons past this point”, he says.

Oh, right. He should have remembered that. Drakon unties his weapons` belt and hands it to the guards, Miryam passes over her dagger. Then, Drakon turns around to his guards, who look extremely unhappy at the idea of giving up their weapons.

“We`ll be busy in the library for, say, three hours, and the it is well protected. There`s a nice restaurant just around the corner, if you want to go. You are, of course, invited.”

The guards don`t look overly happy that they won`t accompany them, but the prospect of a free dinner that isn`t army food seems to lighten their mood. Drakon hold open the door to the library for Miryam and follows her inside. They walk past the front table and Miryam cranes her neck back to look up at the high ceiling, and the stairs climbing up right to the roof.

“We meet Kiko in the ninth story”, Drakon says, “So, we could walk, or-“

“Fly, please.”

Drakon laughs and ruffles his wings. A group of students walks past, one of them whispers something to the others and then, they all stare. Drakon wraps his arms around Miryam, spreads his wings and sends them shooting into the air. They land on the ninth story and Miryam quickly straightens her clothes.

“There we are”, Drakon says and pushes open the door. “Magical studies, department for Higher Powers.”

It isn`t one of the parts of the library he visited frequently as a student, but he knows his way around well enough not to get lost as he leads Miryam through the labyrinth of shelves to where they agreed to meet Kiko.

He is already there, casually leaning against a shelf. In the soft light, his red skin seems to glow, the colours shifting around it making him look like a living flame. When he sees Drakon, he grins broadly and pushes off the shelf he was leaning against. Drakon closes the space between them with two quick steps and pulls his old friend into a hug.

“I missed you too”, Kiko says. He lets go of Drakon and gives him a mischievous smile. “So, tell me, Your Highness. Do I need to bow?”

“Don`t you dare.” Drakon laughs and waves Miryam over. “That`s Miryam. Miryam, Kiko.”

“Nice to meet you”, Miryam says.

“The pleasure is mine.” Kiko sketches a bow, then winks at her. “My friends will be beyond jealous if they hear I`ve actually met you. That is, if they believe me at all. But”, he adds, expression turning more sober, “I suppose you aren`t here just to give me something to brag about to my friends.” He turns to Drakon. “Your letter said you need my help. What can I do for you?”

Drakon sets up wards around them with a wave, then inclines his head to Miryam. “I think it`s best if you explain.”

Miryam nods, but looks around nervously even though she should know about the wards. “You know that I`m a witch”, she says carefully.

Kiko nods, excitement lighting his red eyes. The horns poking out of his curly hair seem to tremble slightly. “Yes, of course. That must be so exciting! I`ve never met a witch before – is it true that you can see spells? And talk to animals?”

Drakon winces. He didn’t consider how utterly fascinated any people who study magic are by witches. That the Guild is so secretive about their abilities only adds to the general interest. Maybe he should have warned Kiko that Miryam has a rather difficult relationship with both her abilities and the Guild.

“Yes to the spells, no to the animals”, she says. Drakon is probably the only one to notice that her smile seems a little strained. “I`ve been having… trouble with it lately, though. For over a year now.”

Kiko`s expression turns serious immediately. “What kind of trouble?”

“With the control. It worked just fine in the beginning, but now…” She shrugs a bit helplessly then begins to haltingly describe her problems. Problems that Drakon didn`t even know existed until a few days ago. “Do you have any idea what it might be?”, she asks after she finished. “Because it keeps getting worse and I...” She breaks off and shrugs again.

Kiko nods. “I see.” He starts chewing on his lower lip. “I take it you aren`t ready to take this to my professor?”

Miryam immediately shakes her head. “It has to remain secret.”

Kiko nods again, but his frown deepens. “The problem is that witches are rare. And, if you excuse me saying so, somewhat secretive about their power. Scholars have been petitioning with the Guild for centuries to get them to disclose at least some information, but they refuse. So I`m afraid that I have far too little information to be able to give you any definite answers.”

“Your guess is better than mine”, Miryam says. If she is disappointed, she hides it well. She now wears the same mild expression she usually dons for council meetings.

“For the reasons behind your troubles”, Kiko says, “The only guess I can come up with is that you simply grow more powerful with time and whatever control you had when you were younger is simply no longer enough. For Fae, it takes about seven years for their power to fully mature, and it might be similar for witches. You got your power at – sixteen? Seventeen? Count up from there.”

Miryam presses her lips together. “So you`re saying this will get _worse_ for one more year?” Drakon squeezes her hand.

“I`m sorry”, Kiko says. “The best advice I can give you is to find someone with similar abilities and get him to teach you.”

“The only people I could ask for that are other witches. And the Guild _hates_ me.” She shakes her head. “There has to be another option.”

Drakon shoots Kiko a pleading look. _Just give her something!_ He can`t have dragged Miryam here, made her hope there might be a solution, just for them to leave empty-handed.

“Well”, Kiko says and gestures vaguely to the shelfs surrounding them. “This is the world`s biggest library. Not a problem those books don`t know a solution to. We just need to search.”

“Great”, Drakon says, quickly jumping onto the suggestion, “Where do we start?”

“Shelf 36 to 120 could have something”, Kiko says.

Drakon looks at the long shelves, then back at Kiko, brows raised. Searching this many shelves would take days.

“Good”, Miryam says, “I’ll start from the end, then.” She manages a parting smile, then rushes off.

Drakon has to fight off the impulse to run after her and find some words of comfort. This didn’t go at all as he’d planned.

“I`m sorry I couldn`t give her a better answer”, Kiko says as they walk over to shelf 36.

“Not your fault.” Drakon sighs. “I should have handled it differently.” Maybe he should have discussed the matter alone with Kiko before bringing Miryam into it. Or he should have made it clear that they might not find anything.

They start from opposite sides of the shelf and begin to sort their way through the books, checking each title and only taking a closer look at the books that sound promising. Drakon sighs. How are they ever supposed to find anything this way?

“And how are you?”, he asks.

“Can’t complain.” Kiko shrugs. “My studies are going well, and I haven’t blown up anything in a few months, so that’s a new record.” He nudges Drakon in the side. “And right now, I’m a little pissed at you. How come I only now find out that you have a crush on her?”

Drakon nearly drops the book he just pulled out of the shelf. “ _What_?” Then, he finally processes what Kiko just said and vehemently shakes his head. “No. No, I don`t have a crush on Miryam! That`s _ridiculous_.”

Kiko laughs, puts his book back into the shelf and pulls out another. “Obviously you do.” He scans the book`s first page and puts it back into the shelf. “Just the way you _look_ at her. Although I should have probably known from your letters already – you can`t seem to stop going on about how _amazing_ and _talented_ and _wonderful_ she is.”

“I`m not…” … _in love with her_ , Drakon wants to say, but he can`t quite get himself to actually speak the words.

He isn`t in love with her. He _isn`t_. Sure, he notices thinks about her, like how her smile lights up her entire face and makes her look like she might be glowing. Or that she is beautiful. But he`d have to be _blind_ not to notice that. And she`s kind, and strong, and smart. He misses her when she`s not around.

They are friends. That`s why. But if he`s entirely honest, they have been friends for a while, but in the past months…

“Shit”, Drakon mutters and runs his hand through his hair. “ _Shit_ , I can`t be in love with her!”

“Why not? She seems nice.”

“Because it`s going to ruin _everything_! She`s my friend, and…” He begins pace between the shelves. “And she`s in love with Jurian. Who is _also_ my friend. Oh, Cauldron, what if they find out?”

Jurian seems angry enough with him as it is. Maybe it`s because of that? Maybe he somehow noticed that Drakon fell in love with Miryam and is angry about that. Who could even blame him?

“Don`t you think you may be over-reacting a little bit?”, Kiko asks. His mouth quirks upwards like he is trying very hard no to smile. “Look on the bright side: at least it can’t end worse than your engagement with Ravenia.”

But this just horrifies Drakon more. “I was engaged to –“ He frantically runs his fingers through his hair. “When we first met, I… She… Oh Cauldron, I`m a terrible person.”

Kiko laughs and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Look, Drakon, not to interrupt your freak-out, but don`t you think you`re blowing this _way_ out of proportion?”

“This is a disaster.”

“It`s a _crush_. The thing about crushes is, you can`t really control if you get them or not, and they usually don`t last long.” Kiko gives his shoulder a final squeeze and lets go. “So calm down a little”, he says, “As long as you don`t start trying anything with her, you should be fine.”

“Right.” Drakon nods and takes a deep breath. This is fine. The situation may not be ideal, but nothing needs to change about their situation. They can still be friends. It`s fine. He looks down at the book still in his hands and flips it open.

“Then we should probably, you know. Continue looking.”

Kiko laughs. “You really haven`t changed at all.”

Drakon doesn`t bother to tell him how very wrong that assessment is.

\----

Miryam has never seen so many books in one place. The shelves reach up to the ceiling and are stuffed with volumes, some of which look like they might be hundreds of years old. She barely dares to touch them for fear that they might fall apart under her touch.

After she worked her way through the first shelf, though, she realizes that there may well be _too_ many books. She could spend days here and still not have seen everything. Even if she just glances at the title of each book and only takes a closer look at the ones that sound like they might be useful, the search takes ages and the odds of finding any useful information seem minimal. Cauldron, she doesn`t even know exactly what she is looking for. Information on witches? On magic in general? On how to control power? Maybe Kiko doesn`t truly know either, and that`s why he has them search close to a hundred shelves.

After working her way through three shelves, Miryam is just about ready to give up. Coming here was a stupid idea. A waste of time. She should have known that witches would be so secretive about their abilities that no one would be able to tell her anything. Well, except for the Guild, but they`d probably rather kill her than help her. How foolish of her, to have hoped that this visit might be the solution to her problems. It will be the best to tell Drakon and Kiko to give up the search before they waste any more time chasing after information that isn`t _there_.

She walks past the seemingly endless rows of shelves until a small glass vitrine catches her attention. She pauses. The vitrine itself looks rather inconspicuous, as does the leather book lying inside, but the glowing strings surrounding both are anything but. Miryam automatically reaches for the vitrine`s lid, but stops herself in the last moment.

“Go ahead”, a voice says from behind her, making her spin around.

A Fae female in scholar`s robes stands between the shelves. She is easily one of the oldest Fae Miryam has ever met, hair already streaked with white and skin marked by deep wrinkles. Her deep brown eyes seem kind enough, though.

“I`m sorry”, Miryam says. She feels caught, even though she wasn’t really going to do anything. “I wasn`t going to touch it.”

“Please.” The female steps closer. “I`d love to see. I so rarely get the chance to see a witch at work.”

Miryam considers refusing, but the spells on the book are witch-made. If she wants to find out what is inside, this is her chance. Carefully, she reaches out for the lid. The wards on the vitrine are simple enough that Miryam doesn`t need to speak to disable them. She opens the lid and pulls out the book. Half a thought has it flap open.

“Fascinating”, the female says as Miryam carefully flips through the pages. “None of our experts have been able to open it.”

Miryam can easily imagine why. After all, her own spellbook is protected by similar wards.

“It`s a spell book”, she explains, “Warded against anyone other than a witch reading it.”

And, this much is obvious just from reading the first page, the spells inside are far more advanced than anything that Miryam has been able to find in her own book. She scans the pages, struggling to understand what, exactly, is written in there. Wards, if she`s not mistaken, but more complicated than any she has ever seen.

She flips the book shut. “May I borrow this?”

“Unfortunately, that will not be possible.”

Miryam hesitates. If she is correct, this book will not be able to help her with the problem she came here to solve, but it might just contain the solution to another issue. She promised Jurian to keep looking into ways a wall between humans and Fae might be constructed, and if there’s a chance of this book containing answers, she cannot give it up this easily.

“I have another book”, she says, “similar to this one. It contains general information on how witches` powers work. If you let me borrow this book, I could copy a few pages from mine and send them to you in exchange.”

She sees the light glinting in the scholar`s eyes and knows she has won before the female says, “That seems like a fair trade. I`ll expect the book and your copies back in a month.”

“Thank you”, Miryam says and tucks the book under her arm. “Now, if you`ll excuse me, I have to go find my friends.”

She feels the female`s eyes on her back as she quickly walks away to where she suspects Drakon and Kiko. She finds them by shelf 40, standing hunched over a book When she walks over to them, Drakon looks up.

“Oh, good that you`re here.” He smiles at her, then quickly looks away again, like he’s uncomfortable about something. “We may have found something.”

Miryam quickly steps closer. “Really?”

“Yes, uhm. Kiko thinks…” Drakon clears his throat and steps from one foot to the other. He really does seem uncomfortable. Miryam wonders if she interrupted something between him and Kiko.

“It`s a book describing the case of a shadowsinger who lived five hundred years ago”, Kiko says, “He also had trouble with his powers, from what I`ve been able to gather. I don`t know the book, or the author, but shadowsinging is considered a Higher Art, same as witchcraft. Maybe you`ll be able to find something useful in it.”

“Thank you”, Miryam says, not bothering to hide her relief. If there was another person who struggled with the same things and made it out of it, she might just be fine. “Truly.”

Kiko`s skin turns an even deeper red. “Anytime. And I`ll continue looking. If I find anything, I`ll let you know.”

“Thank you”, Drakon says and glances at a clock that’s standing in the corner. “I’m afraid Miryam and I have to get going. I told my guards we’d be back in three hours, and I don’t know what they’ll do if we’re late.”

Miryam thanks Kiko again, then steps back a few steps to let him and Drakon say goodbye in private. The two of them hug, Kiko says something that makes Drakon laugh, then they break apart.

“Take care, you two!”, Kiko calls after them as they walk back through the library. Drakon waves back over the shoulder at him.

When they are out of the library and walking through the university town again, Drakon nods to the second book Miryam still holds in her hands. “And what is that?”

“A spellbook.” She reaches for his hand and smiles. “Coming here was a wonderful idea, Drakon. Thank you.”

He smiles back at her. “I just hope this book we found will help.”

Back in their camp, Miryam spends the entire night reading in the book about the shadowsinger while Jurian sleeps next to her. The book isn`t helpful. Not in the slightest.

Dread growing with each page, Miryam reads the scarily blunt description of what happened to that long-ago shadowsinger. It started with trouble with controlling his abilities. Small at first, then bigger and bigger, until he had outbursts where he entirely lost control. The symptoms the author describes are scarily similar to what Miryam is struggling with, just applied to a different set of powers. But it didn`t end there. After a while, he started to lose touch with reality. Could no longer tell what was real and what imagined. Saw things that weren`t there. After two years, he died during one of his magical outbursts.

Miryam carefully closes the book and puts it on her nightstand. Blows out the candle.

She spends the rest of the night sobbing into her pillow.

But in the morning, when Drakon asks her if she found anything in the book, she makes herself smile. “It was very helpful.”

It’s not like there’s anything they can do about it, anyways. Better to focus on winning the war than to waste time on a problem that doesn’t have a solution.


	33. Chapter 33

## Chapter 33

One week after their visit to the library, Miryam lies sprawled on her bed and glares at the spellbook she positioned on her pillow. Unlike her own, it contains no additional explanations to go with the spells. Which is truly unfortunate, since the spells noted down in this book surpass everything Miryam has ever seen. She understands the individual symbols, but their combination is where the problems come in.

“Damnit”, she mutters and rubs her temple.

Whatever these spells are, they are powerful. Powerful and complicated, and if Miryam ever learns to understand them, she might actually be able to stand a chance against the other witches.

“Trouble?”, Jurian asks from where he is sitting over his maps.

“Yes.” Miryam sighs. “This is too damned complicated for me.” She rereads the page for the eights time, still not understanding what exactly the spell is supposed to accomplish. “I just don’t have the necessary knowledge to understand it.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out”, Jurian mutters and moves a figure over his map.

_If my power doesn’t rip me to shreds before I do_ , Miryam thinks, but she just nods and returns to her studies.

Half an hour later, all she has to show for her troubles is a pounding headache. When Drakon pokes his head through the tent’s entrance, Miryam is almost relived to have an excuse to stop her work. Jurian just briefly looks up, rolls his eyes and goes back to his work, but Miryam slams the book shut and swings her legs over the bed’s edge to sit up.

“Tell me you have some good news.”

Drakon’s answering wince tells her everything she needs to know about the nature of the news he brings. “The university wrote”, he says, “They…” He bites his lip. “They got contacted by the Guild. Apparently, Artax was very… persuasive. They want the book back, and politely decline any information you might have promised them in return.”

Miryam looks down at the book, then shrugs. “No one wants to pick a fight with the Guild.” She should have seen it coming. “What now?”

“You give the book back?”

Jurian snorts. “You can’t be serious.”

Drakon starts drumming a rhythm on his leg and shoots a nervous glance at Jurian. “The university has a considerable amount of influence on the Continent”, he says, “Several of the current Continental leaders are former students. I may be the least qualified person to give anyone advice on politics, but I don’t think this is a fight you want to pick.”

Miryam hesitates. Giving up the book would be the easy way. If she’s entirely honest, she doesn’t want to deal with it anyways, and this is the perfect solution. But if it does hold the key to the spell she’s been failing on, then it might mean the difference between life and death for millions of humans.

“Fine”, she says, “They want a book, they’ll get it.”

“Miryam –“, Jurian begins, but she shakes her head.

“ _A_ book”, she repeats, “warded so that only a witch might open it, with a couple of spells written inside. It just won’t be this one.”

Drakon looks genuinely shocked. “You are… you’re going to _steal_ this book? From a _library_?”

“Maybe take a moment to remember we’re at war”, Jurian says and returns to his maps. “You’ll realize how stupid you just sounded.”

“Sorry.” Drakon flinches. “You’re right, that was…” He turns to Miryam. “If you want to forge the book, just give it to me when you’re done. I’ll see to it that it’s delivered.”

“Thank you.” Miryam considers telling him that the university won’t lose anything through the exchange. They lent her a spellbook they can neither open nor read, and that’s exactly what she’ll give them back. But somehow, she doesn’t think Drakon will be overly grateful if she returns this conversation to his concerns about the library. So instead, she changes the subject. “I won’t manage to get it done today, though”, she says, “I’ve got a council meeting this afternoon.”

One she really doesn’t feel like attending. The High Lord of the Night Court apparently has some information he deems important enough that he needs a full council meeting to share it. Arrogant bastard, stealing all of their time with his nonsense. Miryam rubs her head. She barely slept these past days, and her thoughts seem to be drifting apart. Is she just tired, or is she already beginning to lose her mind?

“If the two of you are smart”, she says, “you’ll stay here.”

\----

Years ago, Miryam warned Jurian that if he continued meeting with Clythia, he would lose himself. At the time, Jurian brushed her off with a shrug. Now, he is beginning to think that she may have had a point after all. It’s like with each meeting with Clythia, he loses another part of himself – tiny bits and pieces, seemingly insignificant, but they add up over time.

At least this time, Clythia brought wine. The bottle is ten times as old as Jurian is, and costs enough to feed his entire army for a week. Sitting on a ground in the small forest they chose as their meeting place this time, he clings to his glass and tries to keep from downing it all at once. Being drunk might make this more bearable.

“Have you had any visions lately?”, he asks. He doesn’t even bother to hide his curiosity. Sometimes he feels like he could just ask Clythia for secret information and she would hand him the files without thought.

“Nothing notable”, Clythia says brightly, “Everything stayed more or less the same.”

Jurian’s grip on the glass tightens. So Miryam is still going to die. No matter how hard Jurian works, no matter how much of the lost ground the Alliance wins back, this one thing always stays the same. He tried asking Clythia about how it will happen once, hoping that if he knew, he might prevent it, but apparently, there’s no telling. Seers, Jurian decides, are no use at all if their visions only tell of a set future, but aren’t able to help change it.

“But that doesn’t matter”, Clythia says, “our future’s still the same. We’ll always be together.”

Jurian’s stomach tightens. “Is that a prophecy?”, he asks with a forced smile.

“No, but I just know it. It’s written in the stars.” Clythia refills both of their wine glasses and runs her fingers through the grass. “We’re like the Mother and Daín.”

“Who?”, Jurian asks.

Comparing them to several pairs of lovers throughout the entire history of the Fae is a particularly annoying habit of Clythia’s. But if Jurian isn’t mistaken, she just took things a step further by comparing herself to the Fae’s main goddess.

“But surely you know the story!”, Clythia exclaims. She sounds genuinely shocked.

“Humans don’t follow Fae religions”, Jurian reminds her. He doesn’t say that he knows the Fae use their religion to justify enslaving his people and that he never really had an interest in finding out more than that.

“Oh, of course. I always forget how uncultured you humans are”, Clythia says.

Jurian stifles a sigh. Sometimes, he wonders if she even realizes that he _is_ human. But of course, she barely seems to understand that they are on opposite sides of a war, so there’s that.

“Well.” Clythia leans forward, clearly excited about being the one to tell him this bit of information he absolutely doesn’t care about. “You know how the Mother made the world, creating High Fae, lesser faeries, humans and animals to inhabit it.” She pauses, clearly waiting for a reaction.

“Yes”, Jurian says. If she starts going on about how superior Fae are compared to humans, he may just lose it.

“After that”, Clythia continues, “the Mother settled down in her seat of power, a magical island named Cretea. From there, she ruled over the world, her followers making pilgrimages there to ask her guidance. One of them was a High Fae male named Daín.” Clythia smiles at him. “The Mother chose him. Picked him out of all the others and made him her consort.”

Jurian doesn’t like the way she looks at him while she says this at all. Is she seriously making this comparison? Does she not understand how disturbing this is?

“Daín was just an ordinary Fae, but the Mother loved him, so she made him into something else. She gave him powers that allowed him to shape the world to his will, a smaller mirror of what she could do, and created a sword for him that made him undefeatable and immortal.”

“And then they lived happily ever after?”, Jurian asks with just a hint of sarcasm. He secretly hopes this Daín used the sword to stab the Mother.

“No.” Clythia tilts her head backwards to look up at the blue sky peeking through the leaves. “After centuries of peace under the Mother’s rule, a group of evil beings rose up against her to conquer the world for themselves. They were defeated, but Daín died in the final battle, slaughtered by the enemy leader. Unable to stand the grief of his death, the Mother vanished, never to be heard off again.”

Only Clythia would consider this to be romantic. “And what about the sword?”, he asks, coming back to the one subject out of this whole rant that actually interested him.

“It vanished”, Clythia says, “As did Cretea. No one heard of it in millennia.”

“A pity.” Having a sword like this might actually prove useful. Assuming, of course, that it even existed in the first place. Since Jurian, like most humans, doesn’t believe in Fae gods, he doesn’t think this is particularly likely.

Jurian takes another sip from his wine and changes the subject. What does he care about Fae myths? They won’t help him win this war.

\----

“I have no idea why you came along”, Miryam whispers to Drakon as they take their seats at the council table. Usually, he only comes along when it absolutely can’t be avoided, and today is no such case.

“Why should you suffer alone?”, he whispers back, “Besides, my emissary’s wife is giving birth to their second child today, and I figured he wouldn’t want to spend the day stuck in a meeting.”

Miryam smiles and straightens her dress. “That’s wonderful news. It’s customary to have gifts for new parents, right? I need to think of something for them.”

“It’s something for the baby, usually.” Drakon looks around the table, his feathers ruffle nervously. “More of a symbolic gift, honestly.”

Miryam nods and smiles over at Zeku, who inclines his head in return. They arrived late enough that they didn’t have to join the general rounds of small talk and could take their seats right away. However, the High Lord who called the meeting still hasn’t turned up.

“Isn’t it just lovely”, Andromache says from her seat on Miryam’s other side. “We all have to play by the Continental rules, no matter what we think of them, but these High Lords get to shit on them as much as they like and no one gives a damn.”

Miryam nods, but before she can say anything, the doors burst open and the High Lord in question enters the room. He is followed by an Illyrian who Miryam recognizes as Mor’s shadowsinger-friend, Azriel. Miryam never had reason to know him well beyond what Mor told her about him – and, knowing his job-description, she never had much of an interest, either. She knew a few torturers in Ravenia’s court and all of them were wretched in one way or another.

As the High Lord takes his seat, Miryam smiles at him. “I’m glad you could make it, High Lord”, she says, pleasantness hiding the edge in her words. A few of the Continental royals look amused. “Now that we’re all here, perhaps we can begin.”

The High Lord gives her a smile that looks more like he’s baring his teeth. “I see your lover didn’t join us. A pity. I’m sure he would have enjoyed today’s conversation. Where is he, may I ask.”

“I’d prefer to move on to the subject you asked us here to discuss, actually”, Miryam says evenly. She has no idea what he’s getting at, and she doesn’t like it.

“But this _is_ the subject I meant to discuss, Miryam dear.”

Miryam hides her confusion behind a carefully neutral expression. What is he planning? Jurian is on a patrol, nothing out of the ordinary. Drakon shoots her a questioning look, some of the other councilmembers frown at the High Lord.

“You call a council meeting”, Grand Duke Zeku asks with soft disbelief, “to ask Miryam about Jurian’s whereabouts?”

“No, I called a council meeting to discuss the matter of Jurian fucking an enemy commander.”

The words are like a slap to the face. For a heartbeat that seems to last an eternity, all Miryam can do is gape at him. Then, her mind springs back into motion and reminds her that she is in the middle of a council meeting and right now, most of the attendants are staring at her. She schools her face back into a carefully blank expression, controls her breathing and forces the shock down.

She wishes she could believe that the High Lord is lying. But his words add up, fall into place to finally form a picture Miryam should have seen months ago. Jurian’s strange solo patrols. His ever-changing moods. The new spy that supplied all this information on Amarantha’s movements. She must have been blind not to see it.

“Maybe Lady Miryam would like to explain”, the High Lord says. Everyone turns to look at her, but Miryam just stares stubbornly at a point in the centre of the table. “Or maybe not”, the High Lord adds with a smirk. Miryam balls her hands to fists. This must be his revenge for her embarrassing him and Keir months ago. “Azriel”, the High Lord adds, calling him forward.

The Illyrian doesn’t look at Miryam or anyone else as he steps forward. “General Jurian”, he says, “has been meeting with the Hybern commander Clythia. I haven’t been able to find out for how long, but apparently”, now, he does look at Miryam briefly, “they are engaged in a romantic relationship. At this very moment, they are meeting.”

Drakon shakes his head. “That’s impossible. Jurian would never…” He shakes his head and turns to look at Miryam, like he’s hoping for her to back him up.

She presses her lips together. As if to match her roaring emotions, her power flickers to life inside her, tugging for her attention. Miryam tries to breathe against the onslaught, but her mind keeps reminding her of the fact at this very moment, Jurian is meeting with Clythia.

“I find that very hard to believe”, Andromache says, “Jurian would never start a relationship with a Loyalist.”

Miryam’s magic spikes. She can’t afford to let it out here, so it simply rushes through her veins, burning like fire. Forcefully, she pushes the image of Jurian’s meeting with Clythia out of her mind. Only for it to unhelpfully be replaced by the memory of a line from that cursed book about the Shadowsinger whose powers killed him.

“It is true”, Azriel says simply.

Miryam digs her fingernails into her leg as hard as she can, and finally manages to focus on the subject at hand. She should have said something a minute ago already, and surely, her silence has been noticed by now. Only what can she say? This is a disaster – for her standing, for this Alliance, for the war effort. Damn Jurian, how could he keep this from her?

She needs to fix this. If she doesn’t, both her and Jurian will look bad in front of the entire Alliance leadership. She needs to set this right, now, before anyone can do any more damage.

Zeku turns to Miryam. “You didn’t know, did you?” He sounds tense, like he, too, knows how precarious this situation is.

“I knew”, she says and tries to ignore the shocked looks a few people give her. “We planned it together. Clythia has an interest in Jurian, and we chose to use it for our advantage. As her supposed lover, Jurian has access to some information.” She doesn’t dare to add that Jurian’s information was the reason behind some of their latest victories. If Clythia for some reason hasn’t figured it out herself, Miryam won’t be the idiot who makes it public. So she just shrugs a little. “I apologize for not being able to notify the council, but we thought due to the need for secrecy in this matter, it would be best to keep it private between us.” She gives the High Lord a half smile. “I would have, of course, explained it to you, my lord. It really wasn’t necessary to call an entire council meeting, you could just have asked me.”

The High Lord’s face turns an ugly shade of purple and he has to grip the chair’s armrests. But other than that, Miryam’s words don’t have the intended effect. Where people seemed confused earlier, they now look annoyed, some even angry. Even Zeku gives her a dissatisfied look.

“Well, I suppose that changes things”, Andromache says slowly. She turns to the High Lord and smiles a bit to sweetly. “So now that you’ve called us all here in vain and made a military secret public, was there anything else you wanted?”

The High Lord’s face has turned an ugly shade of purple. “No”, he snaps, glaring at Azriel, “That was everything.”

He is also the first to leave, storming out of the room like a child. Miryam chooses the more dignified approach and waits a moment before slowly rising. Drakon steps close to her.

“Back to the camp?”, he asks.

Miryam nods, but Zeku interrupts their conversation. “May I have a word, Miryam?”, he asks.

The only person Miryam wants to have a word with right now is Jurian. But a feeling tells her that she already messed up enough today. The last thing she needs right now is to offend her most important Fae ally.

“Of course”, she says, then turns to Drakon. “Do you mind waiting?”

Zeku adds, “It won’t take long.”

“No problem”, Drakon says and looks around the meeting room, seeming a little lost. “I’ll just talk to…” He hesitates, then smiles. “Andromache. We haven’t seen each other in a while.”

Miryam nods and allows Zeku to lead her away. He takes them to a smaller meeting room, closes the door, and sets up wards.

“What are you _thinking_?”, Zeku hisses as soon as the wards are up. “Why didn’t you just let it slide?”

“What?”, Miryam asks.

Now, she’s genuinely confused. She assumed Zeku might be angry because of the blow to her – and, by association, his – standing, or because she didn’t tell him about Jurian’s affair with Clythia. But none of what he said seems to indicate this.

“I don’t care if you knew or not! You should have said you had no idea, that Jurian went behind your back.”

Miryam shakes her head. “I would have looked stupid.”

“That would have been better than looking like you went behind the council’s back again!” Zeku’s voice rises towards the end of the sentence. He takes a deep breath, then continues. “Miryam”, he says more softly, “I think you still don’t understand the situation you’re in. Large parts of the council see you as a _threat_. In your position, you can take a blow to your standing far more easily than any actions that reinforce the impression that you’re dangerous to them.”

“This is ridiculous!” Miryam shakes her head. “Who would see me as a threat?”

“Lots of people”, Zeku says. “So keep your head down. Let someone else lead.”

Miryam stares at him. “But I can’t”, she says, “I’m not even leading, not really. But they need someone to stand at the front, and if I don’t do it, who will?”

“They’ll find someone.”

“No, they won’t. Because the humans will never allow a Fae to lead, and the only Fae I know who would accept a human leader is Drakon. If I step back, it will be the end of this Alliance and you know it.”

Zeku just watches her. His blue eyes are dark with sadness. “I don’t think you understand, Miryam”, he says softly. “This is your only chance. Keep your head down. Don’t make yourself into a threat, or you’ll have to pay the price.”

Miryam slowly shakes her head. Her fingers tremble, she forces them to stop. There are a million things she could say. That this is unfair. That all she wants is to free her people, and then she’ll disappear from politics. But what would her words count? What would they change? Her choice is already made either way.

“Then I’ll pay”, she says and lifts her chin, hoping that she sounds resolute instead of lost and desperate. But how could she stand back while her people bleed and die?

Zeku sighs. “I feared you would say that. You know you can’t win this, do you?”

Miryam shrugs. She doesn’t need to win. She just needs to draw things out until the war ends. Then, it will be alright. As soon as the Loyalists have been defeated and the human slaves freed, the Alliance can fall apart if it needs to. These Fae nobles can go back to quarrelling over power like wolves fighting over a carcass, and Miryam can try to sort out her life without the weight of thousands of lives on her shoulders.

“Thank you for the warning, though”, she says. “And for, you know. The general advice.”

She likes Zeku, after all. He’s her ally. Not quite her friend, perhaps, more like a mentor. She doesn’t want him to think she’s disregarding _him_.

Zeku waves her off. “I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you need to talk to Jurian.”

And what a talk that will be. With a quick goodbye, Miryam slips out of the meeting room. Drakon is still talking to Andromache, but quickly ends the conversation when he sees Miryam and walks over.

“Sorry for leaving you alone like this”, Miryam whispers.

Drakon shrugs. “Wasn’t so bad.” Together, they walk towards the gardens, the only place where you can winnow in and out of the palace. “What did Zeku want?”

“Discuss strategies. He didn’t like what happened with Jurian.”

Drakon nods. He keeps shooting her glances as they reach the gardens and winnow back to their camp. Finally, he breaks the silence.

“You didn’t know either”, he says, statement and question in one.

“No, I didn’t.” She doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Is there anything I can do?”, Drakon asks.

Miryam shakes her head. “Thank you”, she says, “But I think I need to be alone for a bit.”

She needs to make some sense of her racing thoughts. And then, her and Jurian will have a conversation.

\----

Jurian returns to his camp when the sun is just setting behind the horizon and the world is coloured in orange and red. Tiredly, he slides out of the saddle and passes his horse on to one of his soldiers. Normally, he’d tend to it himself, but today, he’s too drained. The meeting was a waste. He endured hours of Clythia’s prattling, but has no information to show for it. Without stopping to chat with any of his soldiers, he trudges through the camp and pushes the entrance to his tent open.

Miryam sits on his bed.

“Hey”, Jurian says. He opens his weapon’s belt and lets it slide to the ground.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jurian freezes, fingers hovering over the jacket he was just opening. A knot forms in his stomach.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”, he says as evenly as he can manage.

“Yes, you do.” Miryam doesn’t get up from the bed. She just keeps staring at him, expression completely unreadable. Locking him out, even with her expression. “How long?”

Jurian’s gaze flickers around the tent. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Maybe a way out. Something that could save him from what he has done, or from what is about to come.

“It started the day Amarantha slaughtered our friends”, he says, eyes fixed on a point just above Miryam’s head.

He doesn’t dare to look into her eyes. Doesn’t want to know if she’ll stick to her mask of indifference, or if there will be an accusation written all over her face. Disgust. He wishes she would say something, anything, but she remains silent. Apparently, she doesn’t plan to make this easy on him.

“I never meant to keep this secret”, he whispers, “Truly. I had planned to tell you after… after that first time. But then…” He chokes on the words. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell you.”

“You promised”, Miryam says. Now, Jurian does look at her. She is still watching him with that guarded expression. “You _promised_ you wouldn’t go see her again.”

“It has gotten us important information.” He doesn’t know if he’s talking to Miryam or himself. “All these victories in the past months… All because of the information I got from Clythia. All because of _this_.” He is shaking. “This is worth it, Miryam.”

She just shakes her head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Crushing shame turns to anger. Doesn’t she _understand_? He is talking about the war effort, about invaluable information, and she chooses to focus on this? She should get it. Why doesn’t she? They are at war, and the two of them have always been a unit, both of them understanding that they need to do _whatever it takes_ to win this. Why is she backing out now?

“Are you jealous?”, he asks, “Is it that?”

Miryam shoots to her feet. “You-” Now, her faked indifference is entirely gone. Her eyes are positively burning. “This has nothing to do with Clythia!” She steps closer to Jurian until they are nearly toe to toe. “I am _angry_ ”, she hisses, each word more clipped than the last, “because you promised me not to meet with her again, and then went behind my back and did it anyways. For months, you lied to my face about it!”

“And you wonder why?”, Jurian snaps right back, “Maybe I knew how you’d react!”

He doesn’t know why he’s saying it. It’s like his mouth developed a life of its own and is moving without his permission. And Miryam may be angry, but he is, too. Even though he isn’t entirely sure why.

“My reaction has nothing to do with your actions, and everything with you not telling me!”, Miryam shots back, voice rising. The maps lying on the table ruffle as if caught in a breeze. “And maybe if I’d known, I would have been prepared when it came up in council today! Do you have any idea how _stupid_ you made me look?”

“This isn’t about your stupid standing in the council! Wars aren’t won in council chambers; they are won on the battle field. What I did helped us win and if you can’t see that-“

“And when we lose our allies”, Miryam snaps back, “how well will your battles go then?”

“Oh, stop acting like this is what you’re mad about! _You_ just can’t stand me putting anything before you. Even if it’s our people.”

Miryam takes a step back. She looks like he slapped her. “Do you even hear what you’re saying?”, she whispers, “This… I barely even recognize you, Jur.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Jurian’s anger crumbles in itself. What has he _done_? He didn’t mean to… He should have _apologized_. Instead, he…

“Miryam”, he whispers and reaches for her hand. She pulls it away and backs away another step.

“Don’t. Just…” She shakes her head, backing away further. “Just leave it.”

“Miryam, please.” He desperately wants to close the distance between them and reach for her hand. There is a gap opening between them like a ravine, and he knows that it’s his doing. He just doesn’t know how to make it right. “I’m sorry”, he whispers.

“I know”, Miryam replies. “And it will be fine in the morning. I just don’t want to be in the same room as you right now.”

With that, she stalks out of the tent.

Jurian stares after her for a few seconds. Then, he grabs a glass from the table and hurls it against the ground. It shatters with a very satisfying clink. He spends the next minutes systematically destroying everything he can get his hands on, sparing only the maps and the most vital bits of paperwork. The last thing Jurian shatters is a wine bottle – although not without draining it first.

Panting, he looks around the tent. His outburst hasn’t made him feel better. He just feels empty. Jurian lets himself fall backwards onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. He wants to cry, but the tears won’t come.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying on the bed when the door flaps open. He doesn’t look up. From the pattern of the steps, he can tell it’s not Miryam, and he doesn’t care to see anyone else right now.

“Hey”, his visitor says.

Jurian groans. “Go away”, he says towards the ceiling.

“I brought you dinner”, Drakon says.

Jurian sits up in bed to look at Drakon, who indeed holds a plate in his hands. “You`re in the wrong tent. _Miryam_ is the one who deserves to be brought dinner and comforted. I’m the asshole who lied to her and then yelled about it.”

“Mor is with Miryam”, Drakon explains. “And I though… well, I thought you might like some company as well.” He stares down at his feet. “Or would you rather be alone. I could leave.”

“Maybe it’s just you I don’t want to see”, Jurian mutters.

He only realizes he was hoping for Drakon to snap back at him and give him an excuse for an argument when he doesn’t. Drakon, damn him, just watches him. He even looks genuinely upset instead of angry.

“Have I done anything to offend you?”, Drakon asks softly. “Because I feel like there must have been something, I did, but I just don’t know what it is. If it was because I’m Fae, I’d understand, but I didn’t spontaneously grow a pair of pointy ears and wings, so it can’t be that, but I can’t think of anything else. But if I did something without noticing, I’m sorry.”

Jurian deflates. Trying to start an argument with Drakon is no fun, mostly because he does not _argue_. He just looks so obviously hurt that Jurian ends up feeling bad about himself for being an ass. And really, he already ruined his relationship with Miryam – the last thing he needs now is a fight with his best friend on top of that.

“No, you haven’t done anything”, he says with a sigh. “I’m just…”

Yes, what? He doesn’t even know what his problem is. It’s not necessarily that he has a problem with Fae, he’s just always so angry. These days, he can barely stand to be around people. Miryam is the only exception, but only because they have been a unit from the very beginning. And Drakon… Jurian can’t say why, but he annoys him even more than the others. Right now, though, that sentiment feels ridiculous.

He nods towards Drakon’s plate. “You brought food?”

“Yes.” Drakon looks relived as he looks down at the plate. “From the camp kitchen, but better than nothing.” He carefully steps over a few glass shards and sits down next to Jurian. “Oh, your hand.”

Jurian frowns down at his fingers. Only now does he notice that his left hand is covered in dried blood. “Oh.” He carefully opens the hand and looks at the deep cut in his palm.

“You got bandages anywhere here?”, Drakon asks.

He puts the plate on the bed next to Jurian and begins searching the destroyed tent for bandages. He finds some under a shattered piece of wood and begins to carefully bandage Jurian’s hand.

After that, they sit together on the bed in silence. Jurian picks around at his food, but can’t quite get himself to eat more than a few bites. Drakon, to his credit, doesn’t try to force a conversation on him.

It must have been hours when Jurian finally breaks the silence. “I should have apologized”, he says, “I don’t know why I didn’t. I just…” He runs his fingers through his hair. His hand is throbbing so badly that he doubts he’ll be able to hold a weapon tomorrow. “I’m so _angry_ ”, he says, “Always. I know I shouldn’t be, but I can’t _stop it_.”

“You have every right to that anger”, Drakon says softly, “Every human does, I think.” He looks down at his fingers. “I’m sure Miryam will understand.”

Jurian hopes she will. He hopes that his words didn’t break something between them beyond repair. They go back to sitting together in silence. Somehow, Drakon’s presence comforts him. This, he remembers, is why he became friends with Drakon in the first place.

Hours must have passed when the tent’s entrance flaps open and Miryam slips inside. Jurian freezes, staring at her. Miryam stares back. Slowly, precisely, Jurian sets down his plate. Drakon’s wings rustle as he shifts around uncomfortably. Miryam steps from one foot to the other. The silence stretches on and Jurian realizes that he has to be the first to speak.

“I’m sorry”, Jurian says. “About what I did, but also… I don’t know why I said all the things, I never meant…” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Jurian wishes she would yell at him. Or at least scold him. Then maybe, this matter might at least feel like it’s somewhat settled. He did something wrong. If she’d get angry at him, then they would at least come close to being even and they could go on from there.

“I understand”, Miryam adds, “Why you did it. I just wish you’d told me.”

“I should have”, Jurian agrees, “I meant to.”

Miryam nods. Looks down at her feet. Next to Jurian, Drakon seems to be doing his best to disappear into thin air.

“Then let’s move on from this. “I don’t want to argue about this anymore”, Miryam says softly, “This war is terrible enough as it is. I won’t allow it to…” She shakes her head. “I refuse to let this drive a rift between us.”

Jurian nods. “Yes. Yes, this is…”

He nods again and looks around, desperate to find a way to change the subject. Next to him, Drakon is now carefully inspecting a feather in his left wing. He looks up when he notices Jurian’s attention and smiles nervously. Jurian hesitates for a moment, then smiles back.

Miryam sits down on the bed between them. Slowly, carefully, Jurian reaches for her hand. She takes it.

“We’ll get through this”, she says. “The three of us together.”

They spend the entire night like this, huddled closely together on the small bed. None of them says a word, but they don’t need to. They just sit together. Trying to convince themselves that their friendship is still the same. Pretending that there aren’t cracks running through the very foundation of their friendship, that they aren’t drifting apart further each day.

It will be the last night they spent together like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope Jurian's point of view comes accross in this chapter as well. His actions and reactions are a bit irrational at times, but I think with the situation he's in, that's understandable.


	34. Chapter 34

## Chapter 34

Miryam, Jurian and Drakon manage to keep their fracturing friendship from falling apart entirely for four more months. It all ends, as anyone could have guessed, with a battle.

The battle in question is their third in just as many days. Miryam has been called away in the morning to help out in a fight against the Xian army and the witch in its employ, so Jurian is left without his best magical backup.

In theory, this shouldn’t have been a problem. Their task was a simple ambush against the Raskan army on its march east. But their spies were off by half in the numbers they reported, so what had been meant to be an easy win quickly turns into an all-out battle. At first, Jurian refuses to order retreat, but as the battle continues, it becomes painfully obvious that he needs to retreat or risk both armies obliterating each other.

Jurian pushes his way out of the thick of battle and joins a few of his commanders on a hill overlooking the battle. Someone hands him a flask of water. He drains most of it in a few quick gulps, then orders one of his lieutenants to signal to the Seraphim that he needs one of their leaders down here to discuss strategies. Drakon lands a minute later, followed by one of his generals.

“We retreat?”, Drakon asks. He’s panting and presses his fingers against a cut on his arm.

Jurian surveys the battlefield. They have reached a stalemate, but the losses on both sides are quickly becoming unbearable. “Someone needs to cover the retreat”, he says.

Drakon nods. “We can take the rearguard.”

Jurian nods, still looking at the battlefield. He hates that they are retreating. Not just because it wounds his pride. Retreating always felt particularly vulnerable to him. It means giving up formation, at least to an extent, and that always comes at the cost of security. If Rask does give chase, the fighting will turn ugly and the losses for both sides will become catastrophic.

The chances of Rask giving chase are low, but somehow, Jurian is convinced that they will. And then, he’ll lose the majority of his army, he is sure of it. He won’t even be able to do anything about it, they will all get slaughtered and he will be useless. He can’t allow that to happen, not again. Somehow, he needs to prevent Rask from giving chase.

He turns to Drakon. “I want your army to stay behind. Hold them off as long as possible. And hour at least, I’d say. Maybe you can cause them some damage.”

Drakon stares at him like he doesn’t understand what Jurian is trying to tell him. Then, he turns to his general, as if hoping for an explanation.

“Was the order too difficult for you?”, Jurian asks.

The Seraphim general shakes his head. “This is madness! Our losses are already rising by the minute, and now you want to have half of the army retreat, and leave us to hold off Rask on our own?” His voice rises. “After that hour you demand, we’ll have lost two thirds of our soldiers. And that is if we are lucky!”

Jurian bristles. “And in doing so, you will make sure that the other half of the army gets out alive.”

Can’t they see that this is the only way? Or maybe they just don’t care. If it comes down to it, the Seraphim as an aerial army will have it easier retreating. They will be just fine, as they always are. Maybe they just don’t care if the human soldiers die.

“Rask won’t give chase! They also took heavy losses, they are just too proud to retreat first.” The general glares at him. “You’ll get us all killed for nothing!”

If there’s one thing Jurian can’t stand, it’s Fae who refuse to take orders. He spins around to Drakon. “Get your general in line”, he snaps, “And start following orders.”

Drakon looks from Jurian to his general, then to the other assembled commanders like he’s hoping someone else will answer for him. When no one does, he softly shakes his head.

“Would you please leave Jurian and me alone for a moment?”, he asks.

The others file away silently, a few shoot looks at them over their shoulders as they go. Drakon waits until they are out of hearing range, then he turns to Jurian.

“Is there a problem?”, Jurian asks sharply.

“Could we discuss your retreat strategy?” Drakon pushes a strand of hair out of his face, smearing blood over his forehead as he does. He looks nervous. “The odds of Rask giving chase are low, and even if they do, we’ll likely be able to hold them off.”

“And if you can’t?”, Jurian cuts in.

“It won’t come to that. But if we stay behind, I’ll lose most of my soldiers. You cannot ask me to sentence them to death for nothing at all.”

Of course Drakon would care more about his soldiers than about Jurian’s.

“Can’t I?”, Jurian asks. “Why not?” He rasps a laugh. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. It’s never your soldiers who pay the price. Wouldn’t want to change that.”

“Jurian, _please_.” Drakon tucks his wings closer to his body. “Just think about it. You know this isn’t necessary, you know -”

On another day, Jurian might have listened. But not today. Or maybe just not to Drakon. “You think you know better?”, he asks.

“No, I-“

“Good”, Jurian cuts him off, voice dripping with disdain. “Because that would be rather ridiculous, given that you can’t even properly run your own country. You always hide behind your advisors, or your generals, or your council.”

Drakon flinches slightly and looks away. “Don’t do this”, he whispers without meeting Jurian’s gaze. “Please. You know these people, you’ve fought side by side with them. Don’t just send them to their deaths for nothing.”

Jurian looks past him at the battlefield. The fighting is catastrophic, both on the ground and in the air. But the humans have it worse. Like always. Just this once, it would be just for things to be the other way around.

“Just follow your orders”, he says.

“You know I can’t.”

Jurian feels something in him harden. “So you’re refusing”, he says flatly.

“Yes, but – “

“Then leave”, he snaps. “I’m done talking to you.”

Drakon shakes his head. He looks distraught. “You wouldn’t do it either”, he whispers, “If you were in my place, you would never…” He reaches for Jurian’s hand, but he pulls it back. “Please”, Drakon repeats, “Don’t do this. Jurian, we are _friends_.”

“You are no friend of mine”, Jurian hisses. “Now take your army and _leave_. You aren’t needed here, and I don’t want to spend another moment looking at you.” When Drakon still doesn’t move, Jurian raises his voice to a shout. “Leave!”

“No.” Drakon looks like he’s trying very hard not to cry, but his voice is surprisingly steady. “Just because you suddenly decide you have no interest in either my help or my friendship anymore, your soldiers don’t need to suffer for it. We’ll retreat with you, and help cover your back. As soon as your soldiers are safe, we’ll leave.”

With that, he turns around and stalks over to his general. They exchange a few tense words and take to the sky. Jurian turns back to his soldiers without sparing another look at the Seraphim in the sky. It’s for the best. He never needed them, anyways.

\----

Five hundred miles further west, Miryam sits on the ground with her arms wrapped around her legs. She tries very hard not to whimper in pain, but she doesn’t think she succeeds. The rational part of her mind begs all the Fae gods she doesn’t believe in that no soldier will go by and see her like this. The far larger part of her, however, is rather preoccupied with the pain shooting through her body.

“Shit”, she whispers. Her body cramps up and she has to grit her teeth to keep from screaming. “ _Shit_.”

“Yes, that’s what you look like”, Helion says lightly. “Although I’d assume the other witch looks worse.”

Miryam would have replied something, but the pain flares and she has to gasp for air. Helion goes to his knees next to her.

“Can I do anything?”, he asks.

Miryam shakes her head. There’s little anyone can do to help. In her experience, all she can do is wait. After a battle like this, it will take a while, but after a while, the pain will fade. Her fault, she guesses, for deciding to try out one of the spells she found in the spellbook she stole from the library. On the bright side, the spell worked. Unfortunately, trying to use that much power sent her magic spiralling. No one but her noticed – well, Miryam assumes the Xian witch did, but she didn’t survive the battle to tell anyone.

Miryam has no idea how long she’s been kneeling on the ground when the pain finally becomes bearable enough that she can move herself into an upright position.

Helion is still kneeling next to her, watching. “You know this isn’t normal, don’t you?”, he asks, “There’s no way you should be in this much pain.”

“Well, I’ll just tell the pain to go away, then”, Miryam mutters.

Helion doesn’t laugh. “I mean it. This isn’t normal. Or did you think that Artax spends the hours after each battle kneeling on the ground in pain?”

In spite of the pain, Miryam straightens. “Well, I’m not Artax.” She spits out his name like poison. Distantly, she realizes that she is shaking. Doesn’t matter. Helion will just blame it on the pain.

“Have you considered that it might be because you’re human?”, Helion asks. “After all, humans don’t have magic, much less the amount of power you are able to harness. Maybe your body simply isn’t made for it.”

Miryam shrugs. She never considered how being part human could affect her ability to control her powers. Helion’s theory certainly makes sense. And Miryam supposes that getting a power that actively harms her each time she uses it would fit in perfectly with how her life is going.

“Well, let’s get you back to your camp, then”, Helion says.

Miryam lets him pull her to her feet. As soon as she’s standing, they winnow. When they land, Miryam’s legs nearly give out from under her and Helion has to loop an arm around her waist to keep her upright. Her head is spinning and she only barely keeps from retching all over his boots.

Fortunately, the dizziness recedes after a moment. “Thank you”, Miryam says and lets go of Helion’s arm.

“Correct me if I’m wrong”, he says slowly, “but didn’t you have _two_ armies?”

Miryam spins around to the camp. She immediately sees what Helion is referring to. In the eight hours since she left their camp in the morning, their army seems to have lost half its numbers. Miryam’s first reaction is pure dread. Another battle gone wrong, an ambush, thousands of dead…

She is already running towards the camp by the time the rational part of her mind interferes. They are missing half of their army, that much is true, but the split is too precise to have been caused by battle. What she sees here is the entire human part of their army. It’s just the Seraphim that are missing.

Miryam skids to a halt in the centre of the camp. All around, soldiers have stopped their work to stare at her. Miryam could kick herself. Instead, she carefully reins her panic in, nods to the onlookers, and continues at a more reasonable pace. Now that she’s no longer running on pure adrenaline, her exhaustion kicks back in and it takes her entire self-control not to collapse.

She finds Jurian in his tent. He is, fortunately, alone and seems unharmed.

“Where’s Drakon?”, Miryam asks by way of greeting and lets herself drop on his bed.

Her breathing comes unevenly and she can’t decide which part of her body hurts the most. Under the bed, she finds a little bag with medical supplies. She takes out a leave that helps numb pain and begins chewing on it.

“Gone.” Jurian clearly tries to sound even, but Miryam can hear the edge in his voice. Sees how he grips the edges of the strategy table hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. He gives her a half-smile. “How was your battle?”

Miryam ignores the question. “What do you mean, _gone_?”

“Left.” Jurian shrugs. “There was a battle. I gave him an order, he disregarded it, so I told him to get lost.”

Miryam gapes at him. “This is a joke”, she says slowly. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“What use is an army that doesn’t do as it’s told?”

“So you just _kicked Drakon out_?” Miryam slowly shakes her head. She keeps waiting for Jurian to laugh and ask her if she seriously fell for this joke, but he remains silent. “What kind of order was this?”

Jurian spins around to her. “Why do you immediately assume it was _my_ fault?”, he asks. His voice is sharp with anger, but Miryam can hear the hurt under it. “Maybe Drakon is just a stupid Fae prick who can’t take orders.”

Miryam bites her lower lip. “Sorry.”

The reaction was stupid, she knows. But Drakon _never_ refuses orders. He doesn’t make a military choice without consulting one of his generals, and he values Jurian’s opinion above most others. The idea that he’d just refuse an order is ridiculous. But isn’t the notion that Jurian would give an order that’s bad enough that Drakon would have to refuse equally outlandish? What in Cauldron’s name _happened_ while she was gone?

Jurian sits down next to her and puts an arm over her shoulder. “I know this is difficult”, he says, “But we can easily get another army. This is just fine.”

He seems way to calm for the situation, but Miryam knows him to well to fall for the pretence. Whatever happened today, Jurian is only barely holding it together right now. He’s on edge, but well, so is Miryam.

“Fine?” She pulls away so that she can look at him. “This isn’t about this stupid war, Drakon is our best friend!” She reaches for his hand. “ _Talk_ to him. Please. Maybe you can solve this.”

Jurian at least seems to contemplate her words before he shakes his head. “I don’t want to work with Drakon anymore”, he says. “He should be glad I don’t report him to the council for insubordination.”

Miryam doesn’t bother telling Jurian that any such attempt would likely fail, simply because as far as the Alliance council is concerned, Jurian _can’t_ give Drakon orders. They are the same rank in the Alliance council, and the only reason why Jurian has high command over their unified army is a private agreement between the three of them that divides up responsibilities. Such an arrangement is highly unusual – Helion likes to joke that it’s only fitting that the three youngest members of the Council run a camp together, since their ages put together might actually be enough to make up a fully-grown adult – and so far, it worked solely because their friendship.

With a start, Miryam realizes that this is the end. For years, they have been the best friends. They fought side by side, risked their lives for each other more times than they can count. They were untouchable. Inseparable. And just like that, it’s all over.

\----

“I could talk to him”, Sinna says in a tone that makes it clear that any conversation she is thinking of will hardly be pleasant.

Nephelle grins and nudges her in the side. “I’m sure Drakon appreciates the sentiment, but do you truly think that yelling at Jurian over this will be helpful?”

“I think dragging him before the council and having him stripped of his command would be helpful”, Sinna mutters.

Drakon lets them bicker. The three of them sit together in the tent Sinna and Nephelle share. Drakon has to share the bench he’s sitting on with three stacks of books, a discarded piece of armour and a bag. Neither Sinna nor Nephelle are capable of keeping their tent tidy, so free seating places are hard to come by, but right now, Drakon finds the chaos comforting.

As soon as they were safely out of the battle, Jurian had one of his captains inform Drakon that he had an hour to get out of the camp. Drakon would have argued, but he feared that would only escalate things beyond the point of no return – if they haven’t crossed that yet – so he just took his army and marched it over to Sinna’s camp.

He still isn’t entirely sure what exactly happened. During the flight, he went over his conversation with Jurian over and over again, trying to figure out where things went so horribly wrong. He is sure he made some mistake that caused Jurian to react the way he did, but he just can’t find it.

Maybe he should still apologize. But somehow, he doubts that Jurian will be interested in an apology. The easiest solution would be to ask Miryam, who knows Jurian best, for advice. But that would include getting her involved in the fight, and he can’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

Drakon wraps his wings tightly around his body. Jurian’s words keep echoing through his head. _You are no friend of mine_. Just like that, he ended their friendship. Drakon still can’t believe it. How did this _happen_? They were best friends for years, risked their lives for each other more time than he can count. Drakon still has a scar on his shoulder from an arrow that had been meant for Jurian, and he’ll never forget the moment he saw Jurian standing in his cell in Ravenia’s dungeon.

“Drakon?”, Nephelle asks.

He looks up. He hasn’t been listening to a word she or Sinna said in the past minutes. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Nephelle smiles softly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Drakon shakes his head. “I think I just need to deal with this for myself first.” Right now, he doesn’t think he’ll manage to talk without breaking down, anyways. “Can we just talk about something else?”

“Sure”, Nephelle says and starts telling him about the newest job she and her cartographers are working on. She just pulled out a map to show him her latest work when a knock on the door interrupts them.

A messenger enters the tent and bows to Drakon. “Your Highness. A message from the Alliance council.”

Wonderful. Just what Drakon needed to make his day worse.

“Thank you”, he says and takes the message. The messenger leaves and Drakon turns to Sinna and Nephelle. “There’s a meeting. Apparently, it’s about what happened between Jurian and me.” Why they deem this worthy of a meeting is beyond Drakon.

“Great.” Sinna crosses her arms. “Then you can tell them about what happened.”

Drakon shakes his head. “I won’t drag a private argument before the council!”

What would he even say? Any account he might give would put the fault on Jurian, if only because he still doesn’t know what he did wrong, but he doesn’t want to blame Jurian. That would ruin any chance they might have of ever getting over the argument. Besides, whatever Jurian’s reasons might have been, Drakon is certain he isn’t in a position to judge.

“In this situation, you have to”, Sinna insists.

“ _No_.”

“Either way”, Nephelle cuts in, “you should probably go to the meeting. It’s probably easier to solve this if all of you are there.”

The last thing Drakon wants right now is to discuss what might be the end of his friendship with Jurian with the Alliance council. “Why do they even care about this?”, he mutters.

Nephelle shrugs. “Likely because it can be used as a way to humiliate Miryam.”

Drakon stares at her. What does this even have to do with Miryam? But of course, her relationship with Jurian and friendship with Drakon are well-known. And she is the leader of the Alliance. It would make sense for the other councilmembers to use this argument to strike against her.

He jumps to his feet. “Excuse me”, he says and rushes out of the tent.

The meeting has already begun when he arrives. Most of the council members don’t even seem to notice Drakon as he slips in. They seem entirely focused on Miryam, who is talking.

“- don’t see why this would concern the council”, she says, “Armies are switched around all the time, usually for no great reasons.”

Queen Nakia shakes her head. “This is one of our best armies”, she says, “certainly the one that works together most seamlessly. And you want to tear it apart for no good reason at all?”

“Due to a personal disagreement”, Miryam says evenly, “I’m afraid that our two armies won’t be able to work together anymore.”

Drakon’s chest tightens. If Miryam requests a transfer of armies, Jurian demanded it. Either that, or she is as sick of his presence as Jurian is.

“Forgive me, Lady Miryam”, one of the Fae says, “but if you can’t even keep a close friendship group of three from falling apart, how do you expect to run this council?”

“This isn’t her fault, she wasn’t even there!” Drakon speaks before he can think any better of it.

Everyone turns around to look at him. Most of these looks aren’t pleasant. Drakon very badly wants to turn around and run out of the room. Instead, he slowly walks over to an empty chair and sits down. Miryam watches him closely.

This will fall back on her. He gets into a fight with Jurian, and Miryam is the one who loses her standing over it. He could do what Sinna asks of him and place the blame on Jurian – only he refuses to place the blame for this argument on his friend. But he can’t let Miryam take the fall, either. Which means…

“It’s my fault”, he says. His emissary gives him an incredulous look, but Drakon’s reputation before the council is worth far less than Miryam’s. “During the battle this morning, Jurian gave an order. I refused. This is what we argued about.”

The other councilmembers keep staring at him. Drakon fights to keep from fidgeting and starts drumming around on his leg.

“What kind of order was that?”, Andromache asks.

“Not an important one”, Drakon lies, “Just a minor disagreement, but we got into an argument over it. Stupid, really.” He shakes his head. “But I’m afraid it was a breach of trust. It simply won’t be possible for us to work together the way we did before anymore.”

Miryam, thank the Mother for her, takes over for him. “Our camp’s arrangement was unusual either way”, she says, “Three commanders with equal rank running a camp together simply isn’t likely to work. Neither Jurian nor Drakon are at fault that it eventually crashed – it was simply bound to happen.”

There are a few nods of agreement, but most people are still glaring either at Miryam or at Drakon. Zeku gives Miryam a brief dissatisfied look before he schools his features back into neutrality.

Miryam rises in a smooth motion. “I’m sorry, but Drakon and I haven’t gotten the chance to discuss this matter yet. Would you excuse us for a moment?”

Drakon takes that as his cue to get back up. No one in the council objects, so he quickly follows Miryam out of the room. Sinna is waiting outside, leaning against a wall. As soon as they step out of the room, she pushes off it and stalks over to them.

“What did you tell them?”, she asks.

Before Drakon can reply, Miryam shakes her head. “Not here. Let’s go somewhere more private.”

\----

Miryam finds an empty meeting room and shuts the door behind them. Drakon sets up wards. As soon as they are up, Miryam turns around to him.

“What happened between Jurian and you?”

“I said so during the meeting, didn’t I? I refused orders.” Drakon doesn’t meet her eyes as he speaks. Sinna snorts softly.

“Jurian told me the same bullshit. I didn’t believe him either.” Miryam can’t quite keep the anger from creeping into her voice. “Don’t get me wrong, I mean this as a compliment, but you rarely make choices without asking for advice first. In all the years we’ve worked together, you never once went against Jurian’s orders, and suddenly, I’m supposed to believe that you’d do so no for no good reason at all?”

Drakon carefully examines the plush carpet. Next to him, Sinna is fuming.

“Tell her”, she hisses.

Drakon shakes his head. “You should ask Jurian. I’m afraid I won’t be able to give an account of what happened that doesn’t make him look bad, and I refuse to talk to you about him that way.”

Miryam turns to Sinna. “Then you tell me what happened.”

Drakon spins around to her. “Don’t you dare.”

Sinna looks back and forth between them. Her lips are pressed together into a thin line, but she doesn’t say a word. In a different situation, Miryam would have smiled at the show of loyalty. As it is, though, it just annoys her.

She turns back to Drakon. “I just want the truth.”

“The truth is subjective.”

“Then repeat his orders to me back word by word if it makes you feel better!”

Drakon starts drumming around on his leg again. He looks around the room, then to Sinna, who inclines her head ever so slightly. He sighs.

“Jurian ordered a retreat”, he says, sounding like he’s battling with himself over each word. “He wanted…” He looks up at the ceiling, then back at Miryam. “He ordered the aerial army to stay behind while the others retreated. We were supposed to hold off the enemy for at least an hour. We were already losing and – “ He cuts himself off once again and shakes his head. “You should be talking to Jurian about this.”

Miryam doesn’t reply. If it was anyone other than Drakon telling her, she would refuse to believe him, but Drakon’s a terrible liar. Which means… She curses. Over two thousand soldiers. Jurian could have gotten over two thousand soldiers killed over nothing and nothing at all. He almost sent his best friend to near-certain death, Cauldron damnit.

“Shit”, Miryam whispers. “What are we supposed to do?”

Sinna crosses her arms. “You should go back into that meeting and tell the council about what actually happened.”

“What for?” Miryam lets out a humourless laugh. “So that they’ll strip him off his command?”

“Exactly.”

Miryam gapes at her. Drakon looks intensely uncomfortable.

“It was just one mistake”, he says, “And I’m sure part of the blame also lies with me, I…” He cuts himself off again and shrugs helplessly.

“I’ll talk to him”, Miryam says, “It won’t happen again, it will be fine.”

“You can’t guarantee that.” Sinna doesn’t bother to sound particularly pleasant. “And with an entire army at stake, you can’t take that risk.”

“Sinna…”, Drakon mutters, but he doesn’t look at her.

Miryam stares down at her fingers. “I can’t do this to him”, she whispers, “I can’t. He’d never forgive me.”

Jurian spent almost his entire life fighting for their people’s freedom. He joined the rebellion as a child and spent every day since fighting against slavery. And now, in the middle of the most important war in the history of humanity, she is supposed to go behind his back to exclude it from the war effort, take away the position he spent his entire life working for?

“Soldiers break under the stress of war the entire time”, Sinna says, completely ignoring Miryam’s comment. “The rank doesn’t really matter, although the higher up they are in the chain of command, the bigger the damage they cause. So when something like this happens, their superiors or peers have the duty to have them stripped of their positions.” She gives Miryam a hard look. “In case you are wondering: The responsibility in this case lies with _you_. And you”, she turns to Drakon, who is carefully examining the pattern on the carpet at their feet, “ought to know this.”

Miryam looks away. Suddenly, she’s very tired. What is she supposed to do? Betraying Jurian like this is impossible, but if Sinna is right, what choice does she have?

She lets herself sink onto one of the chairs and presses her hands against her face. With startling clarity, she realizes that she is completely lost, and has been for quite some time. She is caught in a desperate juggling act, trying to keep the balance between more responsibilities than she could possibly handle. Whoever got the idea to put her in charge of a _war_? She can’t even keep her group of friends from falling apart, or her power from ripping her sanity to shreds. Yet she is expected to make choices that might decide over thousands of lives?

“You can’t expect this”, Drakon says softly, “How could we do this to Jurian?”

Miryam presses her hands harder against her face. They can’t – _she_ can’t. How could she?

“I know this is hard”, Sinna says. Her voice sounds softer than Miryam ever heard it, and Miryam is well aware that this is for Drakon’s sake, not hers. “But it is for the best – not just for the army, but also for Jurian.”

Miryam has to keep from snorting. Sure it is. She is meant to take away his life, but it’s alright, because _it is for his own good_.

Sinna continues, “I had a friend once. We joined the army together, rose through the ranks. For two hundred years, we fought side by side. Then eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore. There was no particular reason. He just cracked.” Sinna’s voice sounds cold, detached, but it is a kind of coldness that clearly masks emotions. “I reported him to our superiors. He got discharged from the army. When that happened, he told me that he would never forgive me.”

“And?”, Miryam asks through her fingers. Drakon puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Forty years later, he reached out to me”, Sinna says, “He moved to the countryside, became a schoolteacher. If he’d continued fighting, he would have died a pointless death and likely taking hundreds with him, but this way, he got his life back.”

It’s a pretty story. Unfortunately, it isn’t the same at all. Whoever this Erithian commander Sinna speaks of was, she is sure that his people were never slaves. Any war he may have fought in would have been utterly unpersonal. Nothing at all like the war they are fighting.

“It’s your choice, Miryam”, Drakon says.

She doesn’t want it to be. Why are all the hard choices always hers? Just once, just _once_ , she wants a choice to be easy. Her breathing becomes uneven.

This Alliance, her powers, Jurian, the entire cursed war… She doesn’t have a solution for any of it. Who does she think she is? Just a little girl who made an impossible promise and dragged an entire Continent into a war she cannot control in a desperate attempt to fulfil it.

“I can’t do this”, she whispers.

“It’s your duty”, Sinna snaps.

Miryam looks up. “No”, she says. Her voice sounds surprisingly steady. “I mean I _can’t_. If we go back in there”, she jerks her chin towards the council chamber, “to tell the truth about what happened and get Jurian stripped off his command, we will tear this Alliance apart.”

Both Sinna and Drakon stare at her with equal confusion.

Miryam sighs. “If we try to get a popular human commander stripped off his command for sending a Fae legion to their deaths, what do you think will happen?”

“But this isn’t about…” Drakon shakes his head and shrugs at the same time.

“Maybe not. But it is a fact that most humans will be more sympathetic of Jurian. They’ll be outraged at the attempt to strip him of his command, and at you for refusing his order. Meanwhile most Fae will back you up, if only to make a point.”

From a political standpoint, their friendship falling apart is already disastrous enough as it is. Their friendship was public from the very beginning, and at least since the Black Land, they are a symbol for what the Alliance might be. Proof that humans and Fae can work together, even become friends. But now, they aren’t friends anymore and if they make the circumstances public…

“This will form a crack straight through the foundation of this Alliance”, she says softly, “And if we are unlucky, it might fall apart entirely.”

“I hope you realize”, Sinna says sharply, judgment in each word, “that you are putting thousands of lives at stake.”

When isn’t she? Wherever she turns, whatever she does, lives are at stake.

“I’ll fix this”, Miryam whispers, more to herself than to anyone else. “I’ll find a way, it will be fine. I’ll…” She bites her lips. “We will find a second human army for Jurian. That will make it easier for him. I can take the magical backup alone, it will all be fine.” She straightens. “What happened today won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You can’t”, Sinna says.

Miryam knows. She just doesn’t know what else she should do.

\----

At Miryam’s request, Drakon doesn’t attend the rest of the meeting. She probably doesn’t want him there while she deals with the fallout of his and Jurian’s falling-out.

He should have tried to prevent it. Somehow. If he’s just handled the situation better, he could have prevented it. Jurian isn’t an unreasonable person, there’s no way he actually wanted to do that. It was just the stress of the battle that pushed him to it, and then maybe Drakon’s refusal that made him stand by his choice. It wasn’t like he actually wanted Drakon _dead_.

“I how you realize that this was shockingly irresponsible”, Sinna says. They are back in her tent, this time without Nephelle. “From both of you.”

“It was the only choice we could make.” Drakon starts fiddling around with a stack of maps lying next to him. “You heard Miryam.”

“Yes, I heard her just fine. But all I _saw_ were two children, desperately grasping at straws to justify choosing loyalty to one man over this war.” She gives Drakon a hard stare. “Let’s face it: No part of this decision was strategical. You both didn’t want to act against Jurian, so Miryam came up with a reason why not acting was morally acceptable.”

Drakon doesn’t have a reply, so he remains silent. He found Miryam’s reasoning convincing, but then, she usually is. Either way, Sinna does have a point – him and Miryam had decided not to act against Jurian well before she ever brought up the political reasoning.

“I just don’t understand”, Sinna says, “Why are you so intent on keeping loyalty to Jurian after what happened?”

“Nothing really happened”, Drakon says. Sinna simply snorts, which says enough about what she thinks of that reasoning. He sighs. “I didn’t think I had the right.”

“ _What_?”

Drakon finds a loose thread on the hem of his tunic and begins tugging around on it. The thread comes loose and the seam. begins to unravel.

“We don’t get to judge.” He lets go of the thread and looks up at Sinna. “You, me – hell, any Fae on this entire Cauldron-damned Continent. No matter what happens, this will _always_ be easier for us. We aren’t the ones who get made into slaves and we’ll never be. Even if we’ll lose this war, we’ll get out of this free.”

Well, _he_ likely won’t, at least if Ravenia gets her way – which she usually does. If the Alliance loses, she’ll find some way to force him to agree to marry her and he is sure that any leniency she might once have shown him vanished long ago. Still, this is in no way comparable to the thousands of humans who might end up enslaved.

“Jurian”, he continues, “has every right to be angry. What right do I, of all people, have to step before the council and judge him for it?”

“This isn’t about his feelings, it’s about his actions.”

“But that isn’t exactly true, is it?”, Drakon asks. “This isn’t about one bad order. You think he’s unfit to lead because it will happen again, and you think that because of the way he _feels_.”

Sinna opens her mouth – and closes it again. “Damnit”, she mutters and shakes her head. Then, she claps Drakon on the shoulder. “You know, I missed having you around.”

Drakon smiles. He missed spending more time with Sinna and Nephelle, too. He just wishes the circumstances had been different.

\----

While Miryam was at the council meeting, Jurian kept busy. He oversaw his army settling down after the battle, held two meetings with his commanders and successfully stopped himself from getting into a fight thrice. Being busy is good. If he just keeps busy enough, he can stop himself from thinking about what happened earlier.

But any hope to escape his thoughts vanishes when Miryam slips into his tent. Jurian immediately lowers his head over his maps.

“Did you get me another army?”, he asks. She nods and he smiles. “Aerial?”

He wants his new allies here as soon as possible. Maybe once they are here, the war will return to its normal goings. Then, it will all be fine. It will proof that he never really needed Drakon or his soldiers – any other Fae would work just as well, if not better.

“Human”, Miryam says.

Jurian’s head jerks upright. “ _What_?”

This goes against any and all Alliance standards. Ever since the beginning of the war, the Alliance favoured mixed armies. They learned early on that they are most effective if they create armies that consist of Fae with varying abilities and humans together. Combining talents has always been their way to success.

“Why would you mix my army with a second human one.”

“I thought it might be best. These soldiers will be pulled from other armies, they’ll mix seamlessly into yours.”

The prospect, Jurian has to admit, is tempting. A single army is always easier to command than two. But it is so very unlike Miryam to make a choice behind his back like this. She’d never assign him an army without consulting him first, much less go against his explicit wishes. Unless –

“You talked to Drakon, didn’t you”, Jurian says. Miryam doesn’t reply, which is answer enough.

He can’t help the anger coiling around his stomach. Of course Drakon would have run to Miryam to complain. He probably found the most unpleasant words to tell her what happened. And of course Miryam took his side. Jurian should have told her right away, but he worried how she might take the news. Miryam isn’t a soldier, she doesn’t understand the choices it sometimes takes.

“So what is this?”, he asks, “Punishment?”

“No!” Miryam shakes her head, hair flying wildly around her head. “No. I’m just trying to make this easier. For everyone involved.” She sighs. “If you can’t even manage to work together with Drakon, your _best friend_ , how well will you manage with another Fae commander? Someone who is older, more arrogant.”

Jurian grips the edges of the table. “You think one lapse of judgment means that I’m incapable to lead?”

Miryam crosses her arms. “I didn’t say that. And forgive me, but that order you gave could have gotten over a thousand soldiers killed. I’d hardly call it a lapse of judgment.”

“You think I meant to get them _killed_?”, Jurian asks. “I just wanted to make sure… make sure that my soldiers made it out alive.”

“They did.”

Does Miryam not understand? He had to eliminate a risk. Yes, Rask didn’t give chase, they got lucky, but he couldn’t have known that. He had to make sure. It is his duty as a commander to look out for his soldiers, and he already failed once. Why doesn’t she _understand_?

“But what if the enemy had given chase?” Jurian’s voice wobbles, but he continues. “Then I could have lost _my_ soldiers. Drakon’s army would have gotten out just fine. As always. Why would it always be _them_ who get out easily?”

It may not be entirely fair, but Jurian can’t help it. These days, Drakon’s very existence is infuriating to him. Drakon with his Fae army and his kingdom that barely suffers from this war. Drakon who is still as stupidly naïve as he was in the beginning of this war.

If Jurian was a little more honest with himself, he might be able to admit that he’s jealous of Drakon. Jealous that he doesn’t have the same problems Jurian has to deal with, yes, but also that he is _better_ at dealing with the war than Jurian. Somehow, through over five years of war and being tortured by Ravenia, Drakon managed to retain his optimism. And unlike Jurian, he also managed to save his soldiers from dying.

Miryam shakes her head. “So what?”, she asks softly, “You lost your soldiers, so now you want Drakon to go through the same? If you both suffered equally under this war, will that make you feel better?”

The pain flares so violently through Jurian that he nearly gasps. For a moment, all he can feel is shame. But it is quickly replaced by anger. Miryam should be on _his_ side. Or at the very least, she should stay out of this. She wasn’t even there, how dare she judge what happened?

“You had no right to make that choice without me”, he snaps.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Miryam wraps her arms around herself like she is trying to protect herself, but her voice is steady. “As your lover, I have to accept when you decide to end the friendship with our best friend even if it affects me as well. As co-commander of this camp, I have to respect that it is your right to end a military alliance as you see fit even if you don’t consult me first. But as the leader of the Alliance, it is not only my right but also my _duty_ to take counter-measures if you threaten the stability of this Alliance and _you_ have to accept that.”

Jurian balls his hands to fists and glares at her. The worst part is that she effectively barred him from arguing. With the position she pushed him into, he cannot say anything against her – not without sounding like an ass who doesn’t respect her choices.

When he doesn’t say anything, she reaches for his hand. “I’m not trying to punish you, Jur”, she whispers, “Please do not see it that way. This arrangement will make it easier for you, too. I know you’ve been having trouble working with Fae commanders lately. It will all get easier if you have only a single army to deal with.”

Jurian sighs. It still feels like a punishment, but he knows that feeling may not be entirely fair to Miryam. Dealing out petty punishments like this isn’t her style. Maybe she really just wanted to help him. Or the council pressured her into making this choice, who knows?

“We need those Fae soldiers, though”, he mutters, but there is no heat behind the argument.

“Do we?” Miryam gives him a small smile. “We managed just fine with an all-human army before the Alliance was formed, didn’t we? Maybe get a few Fae for basic shielding and we’ll show these Loyalist bastards that we don’t need Fae to defeat them on the battle field.”

Jurian contemplates her words for a moment, then smiles. He really was unfair to Miryam – this idea is amazing. One army will always work more smoothly than two put together, and not having to deal with any Fae will be an improvement, too. Then why does he feel like there is a thorn stuck under his skin, aching and aching? He made his choice about Drakon, didn’t he? It is for the best if they are no longer in the same camp.

“It will be just like before the war started”, Jurian says with all the brightness he can muster and pretends he doesn’t see the sadness in Miryam’s eyes.


	35. Chapter 35

## Chapter 35

In the following months, there are no further incidents with Jurian, which Miryam interprets as her plan having been a success. Jurian clearly works better with a larger, entirely human army. From a military point of view, her plan worked perfectly. But from a personal viewpoint, it is rather catastrophic. Any negative development that started before Drakon left seems to increase tenfold, and all Miryam can do is to stand by helplessly.

She does what she can to make things easier for Jurian, but none of her attempts work. Jurian doesn’t want her sympathy. He doesn’t want to talk to her either. Not about his feelings, or his actions, or anything else. The slightest disagreement sends him on edge. Miryam doesn’t know why, but anytime she says something against him, he seems to consider it to be a personal betrayal. So he snaps at her. Sometimes he apologizes afterwards. Most times, they just pretend nothing happened and move on with their lives.

And that would be fine. Miryam can take arguments, even if they always leave her feeling like there are splinters stuck under her skin, cutting with each moment. She can deal with Jurian’s anger – she understands it well enough. And if Jurian’s way to deal with it is to convince himself that all will be well if just kills Amarantha, she won’t stop him. But these days, Jurian prioritizes his private vendetta over everything else. Miryam had to keep him from going against orders to chase after her four times already.

The fourth time was yesterday, and Jurian is still angry enough that he barely spoke to her these past few days. If Miryam had been a little prouder, she would have let him stew, but here she is, sitting in his tent, once again apologizing for an argument that was his fault to begin with.

“We could have won this battle,” Jurian argues. He slams a file on the table with a bang.

“We had _orders_.” Through lots of practice, Miryam manages to keep her voice calm. “We were meant to keep our position to prevent the Vallahan army from marching east and ambushing out forces there.”

“It was a unique chance!”

Miryam sighs. “This war is bigger than your fight with Amarantha, Jurian,” she says softly, knowing that he likely won’t like this, “Revenge won’t bring back the dead, but there are millions of humans we might still save.”

Jurian glares at her. He’s angry now, she can see it in his eyes. “You don’t understand this,” he snaps and returns to his maps.

Miryam presses her lips together. Usually, she accepts Jurian’s behaviour with a shrug, but she can’t stand when he acts like this. How _dare he_ pretend he knows more of anger and suffering and hate than she does?

She tries to understand, she really does, but damnit, Jurian isn’t the only one to have lost people. Does he think Miryam forgot about the thousand slaves Ravenia had murdered? Does he not know that while they are stuck in their endless fight against the loyalists, more of her people get slaughtered every day? Jurian isn’t the only one who is furious, nor the only one who wants revenge. If he has a right to anger, then Miryam does, too – but unlike him, she understands that this war is bigger than personal retribution. Aren’t the millions of human who still live in shackles more important than any revenge they might gain?

“I’ll be going to the mess hall.” Jurian stands so abruptly that his knee slams against the table and his ink pot nearly falls over. “You coming?”

She doesn’t want to come. She wants him to stop acting like she is the one who doesn’t understand, and since that’s not likely to happen, she wants to be left alone. But this is a peace offer, and in their current situation, Miryam can’t risk to refuse it, no matter how angry she may be. Jurian is suffering far more than she is, so that means it falls to her to look past her own feelings.

So she makes herself smile. “Sure.”

Jurian gives her a curt nod and stalks out of the tent, Miryam following shortly after. The mess hall is full already, but soldiers move over to make space for them. She smiles and thanks them. Someone hands her a bowl of stew and two slices of dark bread.

While they eat, Miryam barely gets a chance to talk to Jurian. She is busy listening to the soldiers, asking the right questions and smiling at the right times, Jurian next to her doing the same. She only pauses when a hush falls over the assembled soldiers and all eyes turn to the entrance.

Miryam frowns at the Seraphim soldier standing in the entrance. She doesn’t recognise him, but his presence itself is unusual. Following their argument, Jurian made it clear that he doesn’t wish to see Drakon or anyone who works for him within five miles of his camp. Indeed, Jurian is glaring openly at the soldier.

“I thought I told Drakon to keep his people _out_ of my camp.”

Miryam puts a hand on his arm. “I’ll see what this is about.”

The soldier bows to her when Miryam approaches. “My Lady,” he says, “Prince Drakon requests a meeting. Urgently.”

Miryam’s frown deepens. Ever since they split camps, she has been meeting with Drakon at least once a week, but this is the first time he had one of his soldiers ask her over. Something must have happened.

“I’m coming right away,” she says.

From where he sits between a group of soldiers, Jurian frowns over at them. Miryam smiles and mouthes _it’s important_ at him. Jurian rolls his eyes and returns to his conversation.

Maybe a part of Miryam is glad about the excuse to leave the camp. Visiting Drakon is the closest she comes to relaxing these days – even though Drakon’s message sounds like the visit today will be far less enjoyable than usual.

On the way into Drakon’s camp, Miryam runs into Nephelle, who just landed accompanied by two other cartographers.

“Miryam.” Nephelle smiles warmly. “What are you doing here? Not that it’s not good to see you, but didn’t you visit only yesterday?”

“I’m not entirely sure why I’m here myself,” Miryam admits. “Some emergency, I assume?”

Worry wipes the smile off Nephelle’s face. “I don’t know of any emergency, but I was out of camp for most of today.” She pats a bag hanging over her shoulder. The edge of a freshly drawn sketch peeks out. “We’d best go find Drakon.”

Miryam nods and follows Nephelle through the camp. As they walk, the Seraphim keeps rubbing her right wing, wincing.

“Damned cold,” she mutters. “When the weather is like this, it always hurts worse than usual.”

Miryam would suggest warm bandages to help with any cramping, as well as a salve, but she assumes that Nephelle, who likely had trouble with her wing for her entire life, likely knows best how to deal with it. Besides, she probably has more qualified healers to help her should she need it.

Nephelle doesn’t seem to expect a reply either way. She turns to the soldier who brought Miryam. “Where’s Drakon?”

“In his tent, Lady,” he replies.

Four guards are posted at the tent’s entrance, but they let Miryam and Nephelle through without comment. Inside, Drakon and Sinna appear to be in the middle of an argument, but they both fall silent when the door opens.

“ _Miryam?”_ Drakon looks at her like she is the last person he expected to see in his tent.

“I asked her to come,” Sinna says. She is leaning against the table, her arms so tightly crossed that they look like they might snap at any moment. “You refuse to listen to me. Maybe she’ll have better luck.”

“Luck with what?” Nephelle asks. She shoves past Miryam and gives Sinna a brief kiss in greeting. Sinna smiles in return and takes her hand.

“I can’t believe this,” Drakon says to Sinna without giving her a chance to reply to Nephelle. “You ask Miryam here to…” He shakes his head.

Miryam exchanges a look with Nephelle, who shrugs and grins. “You know what?” She nudges Sinna in the side. “How about we go wait outside and let Miryam and Drakon talk, now that she’s here. While we do, maybe you can tell me what this is about.”

Sinna grumbles something, but there is no real anger behind it and she follows Nephelle out of the tent without complaining.

Drakon turns to Miryam, wincing. “Sorry about this,” he says. “Sinna…” He shrugs. “Well, you know.”

“And what is it about this time?” Miryam asks.

It must be something serious. Sinna worries about Drakon, that is true. It is equally true that her methods are usually rather blunt, sometimes harsh, and Miryam isn’t always fond of them. But usually, she doesn’t go over his head like this. She speaks her mind on everything, but in the end, she accepts that Drakon can make his own choices.

“I got a letter from Ravenia,” Drakon says in a too-quiet voice.

_“What?”_

Miryam stares at him. Drakon shrugs a bit too casually.

“She wants to meet,” he says. He does an admirable job of keeping his voice detached, but Miryam knows him too well to be fooled by it. “Was all formal about it, too. She even wants to use the Lake Palace. You know, the one where the Alliance and the Loyalists met at the beginning of the war.”

Miryam nods slowly. “And you argued with Sinna because she didn’t want you to go?”

But in truth, she is far more interested in Ravenia’s intentions here. Why is the Queen of the Black Land so interested in Drakon? There is no logical reason for this, at least not one Miryam has been able to figure out, and it annoys her to no end.

Drakon shakes his head. “She doesn’t really have a problem with that. If we’re meeting under the seal of neutrality, Ravenia probably won’t do anything – she won’t be able to, if we’re meeting in the Lake Palace. No, Sinna just doesn’t want me to go _alone_.”

“Why would you go alone?” Miryam asks.

Up to that point, Drakon’s reasoning made perfect sense. Ravenia wouldn’t violate neutrality, the political repercussion would be too severe. But if the meeting follows protocol, Drakon and Ravenia should bring one companion each. Officially, it’s meant to be a protection, but with wards ensuring neutrality, the choice of the companion is usually more a show of power. Ravenia will bring Artax for sure.

“I’d just prefer it”, Drakon says, but he doesn’t look at Miryam. He sits down on his bed and stares down at his knees. Sighing, Miryam sits down next to him.

“Why?” She asks. “It’s the protocol, if you go against it, it will look bad.”

Besides, Miryam can’t think of a reason why Drakon would _want_ to go alone. If she had to meet with Ravenia, she would always want at least one person who is on her side with her. Without Jurian and the other Alliance members beside her, she doesn’t think she would have been able to get through the meeting with the Loyalists.

But Drakon shakes his head. “I can’t take anyone along.”

And suddenly, it makes sense. “It’s because you don’t want them to find out why Ravenia wants to marry you, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”, Drakon asks. His confusion almost seems genuine. Almost.

“Oh, you know,” Miryam says, “You’ve known ever since the Black Land. I just don’t understand why you’re so adamant to keep it secret.”

Drakon keeps staring at his knees. Miryam very badly wants to push. After all, this might well be relevant for the war effort. It might hint at a weakness of Ravenia’s, and if that is the case, she _needs_ to know. But she has too many secrets herself to be able to push Drakon on his with clear consciousness. She _can’t_ push, at least not without making herself into a complete hypocrite.

She reaches for Drakon’s hand. “And you’re sure you can do this?” She asks.

If Drakon is surprised that she dropped the subject, he hides it well. He just gives her a grateful smile and squeezes her hand.

“Yes,” he says, “I mean, I think so. There isn’t much Ravenia can do to me if we meet in the Lake Palace, right?”

\----

In spite of his big words, Drakon desperately wishes that Miryam was with him when he arrives in the palace in the lake the Continent uses to host neutral meetings. He is more than half an hour early and the palace is still deserted when he walks up the bridge that leads over the black lake to the island in its centre.

No guards stand in front of the gates, but on each side, a huge crystal bowl is placed. Drakon takes a dagger from his belt and draws it over his palm. Blood wells up and drips into the bowl, crimson on sparkling crystal.

„I swear that while I am on these grounds, to do no harm to anyone here, not by action or intention. I swear it on my life and on my blood.“

Rays of light shoot up from the bowl, painting rainbows into the air. That seems like a good sign. Still, he wishes someone was here to give him directions on what to do.

“Please don’t fry me”, he tells the wards and slowly steps forward.

The wards don’t fry him, which is rather nice of them. The great iron doors to the palace swing open as if pulled by invisible servants and Drakon enters. Slowly, he walks through the entrance hall, looking around. Even though the palace has been abandoned for years, the spells woven through the stone kept it from decaying. The palace is still splendid, but there are still signs of its abandonment. Wines sneak through the windows, a bird built a nest in one of the chandeliers and two mice skitter off as Drakon approaches.

“Admiring the view, Your Highness?”

Drakon only barely manages to keep from flinching. He turns around slowly, with all the grace he can muster.

Ravenia stands by the doors, dressed in her customary loose white clothes. Golden jewellery glints at her arms. As Miryam predicted, she is accompanied by Artax. The head of the Witcher’s Guild is dressed in the light grey robes of his profession, a scroll and a feather stitched on his breast.

“You need to bow”, Ravenia says, “In case you were wondering what the protocol demands in this situation.”

Drakon looks at her, and he sees the dark dungeon cell she locked him into, her masked torturer and the glowing iron in his hand. He hears her voice and his ears ring with screams – his own and those of others. Before he can stop himself, he has taken a step back, away from her. His power comes to life in a whisper, making a wind rustle though the room.

He digs his fingers into the fabric of his coat. “Don’t you think we’ve left protocol behind long ago?”

Ravenia clicks her tongue. They are the same size, but somehow, she manages to look _down_ on him. “Still, nothing speaks against some common courtesy.”

This is exactly what Drakon despises about Continental politics. You can murder thousands of innocents and no one will bat an eye. Blackmailing and torture are perfectly acceptable. But Cauldron forbid that Drakon botches up a formal address.

“I would also have appreciated some courtesy,” he says, “when I was in your court. You remember? You had me thrown in the dungeon and tortured.”

“Now, we both know that this was entirely your fault,” Ravenia says with a dismissive wave of hand. Behind her, Artax picks up a vase from one of the pretty little tables and turns it around in his hands. “And it is not what I called you here to discuss.”

Drakon is beginning to think that Sinna may have been right. He shouldn’t have come. What is he even trying to accomplish here? Why does he go to a meeting with two of the most unnerving people he ever met? Just to get ridiculed?

“Then kindly get to the point”, he says.

Artax bristles. He must have released his hold on his power, because the room seems to turn colder. No, not colder precisely. But the air suddenly feels heavy, loaded the way it does in the hours before a thunderstorm.

It only stops when Ravenia shakes her head ever so slightly. She has started examining her nails like Drakon is not even worthy of her attention. “I’m rather dissatisfied with you, you see”, she says lightly.

 _I’m not exactly happy with you either_ , Drakon thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Not when Artax is watching him the way a hawk might stare at a mouse, unblinking and predatory. His courage is spent. All he can manage is to keep from running, and to hide his trembling hands behind his back.

Ravenia sighs. “You don’t seem to realize that I have been kind with you as of yet. Continue refusing me and that will change.”

Kind. Drakon tries and fails not to think of iron burning his skin, pain that never seems to end and the helplessness of being unable to make it stop. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Ravenia would certainly hear the fear in his voice – as he is sure she already sees it in his eyes.

“I have no need of Erithia, you see”, she says, “Your land, I could use, but your people?” She smiles slightly. “Until now, I spared them in this war, but my patience has come to an end. So the choice is up to you: You can either agree to this marriage, or watch me burn your country to the ground.”

“No,” Drakon whispers.

Artax lets out a low laugh, but he ignores him. This can’t be happening, it can’t – it simply isn’t possible. There are _hundreds of thousands_ of people in Erithia. Ravenia can’t be threatening all of them just to get Drakon to agree to a marriage. _This is the woman who murdered over a thousand people just to punish Miryam_ , he reminds himself. She won’t stop at his country either.

It is a terrifying realization. But worse is that Drakon knows, deep down, that he won’t be able to stop her. He _can’t_ give her what she wants. Not just because of vows or gods, but because if Ravenia got her hands on the sword, it would not just be Erithia that burned, but the entire world.

“No,” he repeats, this time more forcefully.

Ravenia just shrugs. “Your choice. Which reminds me.” She gives him another smile, but this one is more vicious. “Do give my regards to my little runaway slave. Tell her she can continue to play at being leader of the Alliance. For whatever little time she has left.”

With that, she turns around and stalks out of the room, Artax close behind her.

Drakon remains standing rooted on his spot, unable to move. Ravenia’s words echo over and over again in his mind, leaving him unable to form a coherent thought. He shouldn’t just stand here, he needs to return to his camp and tell Sinna what happened. They have to prepare, send a message to the Alliance, do _something_.

But deep down, he knows that it will be no use. Ravenia wouldn’t have told him in advance if she hadn’t been sure that she’ll win no matter what he does. Warning him was just a final taunt – making sure he knows what is coming, knows that he did everything in his power to stop it, and that it still wasn’t enough.

Drakon hasn’t been to Cretea in over a year. Since he can’t get into the cave anymore, he avoided the island rather than face his failure. But now, with nowhere else to turn, he returns to the cave. What he needs is a miracle, and this is the only place where he could find one.

The mist at the cave’s entrance twirls in front of him. It forms a male figure, masked and with an iron bar in his hand.

“Let me through”, Drakon hisses. This illusion cannot scare him more than the meeting with Ravenia and he has no time for this, not when his country is being threatened.

In answer, the mist crumbles. Drakon blinks. Nothing is ever that easy. Hesitantly, he starts forward, but before he can step through the opening, the mist rises again. But this time, it takes another form.

For a heartbeat, Drakon simply stares at his father, as confused as he was when he went into the cave after his coronation. Then, he also saw his father, but after what happened in the Black Land, that changed. Until now, it appears. Not real, he reminds himself. This isn’t real, it’s just an illusion. Unfortunately, that doesn’t change a thing as his father starts to speak.

“What kind of trouble did you get into now?” He asks in a tone that isn’t angry, but rather disappointed.

“You aren’t real,” Drakon says, but his voice shakes.

“That’s true,” his father agrees, “But as long as you continue to run my country to the ground, I’ll keep appearing.”

Drakon nervously tugs on the hem of his coat. He got past his father and his taunts before, he should be able to do it again. But with Ravenia’s threat still ringing in his ears, he can’t summon the confidence he would need to get past the spell. How can he confidently tell his father that he is doing well as a ruler when his country might get invaded?

“I’m trying,” he says instead, “Just let me through, I’ll find a way to fix this. Please.”

The mists don’t move. Drakon’s father shakes his head. “Trying isn’t enough. You swore you would never let our people down, but you did and now, thousands might die.” He shakes his head sadly. “I always knew this would happen if you were put in charge. There was a reason, after all, why I decided to sell you to Ravenia.”

Drakon spins around and stalks back through the tunnel. He made it about halfway to the door when a raspy laugh sounds from behind him. Drakon slowly turns around to the ghost who materialized behind him. His face is shrouded in shadows as always, and his body seems to appear and disappear sporadically.

“What do you want?”, Drakon asks. His voice sounds shrill in his own ears.

The witcher shrugs. The movement looks off without an actual body. “Maybe I just enjoy watching you.” He laughs again. The sound sends shivers down Drakon’s spine. “You’re rather entertaining. Can’t even get past a simple spell. I’d like to see how you even manage to run your country – can’t work very well, right?”

Drakon’s eyes begin to burn. He blinks rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. He balls his hands to fists and turns his head away. “Shut up.”

“Now, _that_ was witty.” The witcher moves a bit closer, not taking a step but gliding over the ground. “Hit a spot there, didn’t I? Come on, surely you didn’t manage to reduce your country to rubble in the few years you’ve been in charge in Erithia.”

“You want to know what happened?”, Drakon asks. He is shaking now. Ravenia’s threats mix with his father’s taunts and he just _can’t take it_. “How about five years of war? How about the fact that this entire Continent is on fire and more people die each day, or that even after five years, we are still at a stalemate and if we lose, millions of humans will end up enslaved?” Drakon’s voice echoes on the tunnel walls, gets thrown back and forth and distorted more and more.

The witcher’s shape flickers once, as if in surprise.

“And Erithia,” Drakon continues, “well, Erithia is about to be invaded because Queen Ravenia of the Black Land somehow found out about this _stupid_ sword and now wants to get her hands on it to set herself up as Queen of the Continent or something like this.” Drakon feels tears running over his face and wipes them away. “So from the way it looks, Erithia is indeed about to get reduced to rubble and I’m too stupidly incompetent to -”His voice breaks. “Shit”, he whispers, “shit.”

He lets himself slide to the ground, wings tugged in tightly, and buries his face in his arms. It’s all hopeless. Ravenia is going to burn his country to the ground and he won’t be able to do a thing against it. After all, he has never once been able to do anything against Ravenia.

“Hey”, a light voice says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – “

Drakon is surprised enough that he looks up. The witcher is kneeling before him – only his looks are completely changed. Gone are the shadows, instead, a sturdy young man with ruddy brown hair and a friendly face kneels in front of him.

Drakon yelps and jumps the his feet. “What the –“

The man vanishes and reappears five feet further away. “Sorry”, he repeats. “I thought you might find this more comforting. But I could change it to something else.” Again, that awkward shrug. “At least you stopped crying, so I guess that’s something.”

Drakon lets himself slide back to the ground. He tries and fails to process that the local evil ghost is actually a nice-looking man who seems only a few years older than him. Upon closer inspection, he looks more human than Fae.

“I didn’t mean to upset you”, the ghost says. “I mean, I kind of did, but I didn’t mean to actually make you cry. None of the others ever reacted. At all.”

Drakon doesn’t manage a reply. All he can do is stare.

“I mean, can you blame me?” The ghost asks. “I don’t exactly get much company down here. Just you Erithian royals, and you are generally not very talkative.” Now, he even gives him a small smile. “But maybe you want to talk? About that war of yours, and this Ravenia.”

Wonderful. Apparently, Drakon is now pathetic enough to make the evil ghost trapped in this cave for his deeds feel _bad_ for him. That’s a new low.

He bites his lip. Telling the local evil witcher the truth about what happened seems like a bad idea. But not that the he mentions it, Drakon realizes that he _does_ want to talk. Badly. And the unfortunate truth is that there is no one outside of this cave who can ever know the entire truth.

“Alright,” Drakon says, wondering if he’ll yet regret this.

Haltingly, he begins to talk. He starts at the very beginning, with his engagement to Ravenia. It occurs to him that he never told this story to anyone before, at least not entirely. At first, he stumbles over the words, but after the first few sentences, he finds that he can’t get himself to stop talking anymore.

The ghost watches in silence, without interrupting him once. He doesn’t blink either. The only reaction he shows is that his form flickers from now to then. Even long after Drakon finished talking, he remains silent, staring at Drakon. He stares back, drumming a quick rhythm on his leg.

“So what did you come here to do?” The ghost finally asks. “To beg for help from a goddess who never once answered your prayers?”

Wonderful. Drakon should have known better than to hope for any help from him.

“Let me guess,” he says, “You want me to free me so you can help me defeat my enemies.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst idea,” the ghost shoots back, “If you’re worried about what using the sword might do to you, I’m pretty sure you could get away with it if you use it just this once.”

Drakon is far more worried about possibly setting a dangerous criminal loose on the world. There’s no way for him to know what the ghost would to if he were to release him. Instead of helping, he might turn on Drakon.

“Sorry,” unsure if he means that, “but I can’t.”

“So you’d rather let this… this _person_ get her hands on _my_ sword?”

“It isn’t _your_ sword. You _stole_ it from Daín.”

Drakon draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. He doesn’t understand this. Why does this even interest this witcher so much? Is he just trying to manipulate him, or does he actually care about what Ravenia getting her hands on the sword might mean?

“True.” In the blink of an eye, the ghost disappears and reappears in a sitting position opposite Drakon. “But if you count on the Mother for help, then you’re in for a disappointment.”

“And whose fault is that?” Drakon asks, “You killed her consort, Daín, to steal his sword. _You_ caused the Mother to disappear.”

To his surprise, the ghost starts to laugh like Drakon has just told him the funniest joke. “You never knew Étain. Even if she was still around, she wouldn’t give a shit about any of this. She cared about exactly three things: Being worshiped, herself and Daín. Certainly never about humans. Or Fae, for that matter.”

Drakon blinks at him. “Étain,m” he repeats. “You mean the Mother. You knew her?”

“Of course. Her and Daín both.” He gives Drakon a smile filled with too-sharp teeth. “And let me tell you something: If you are truly fighting against slavery, you would have been sorely disappointed by your precious goddess.”

Why did he even start this conversation? He should have known that debating this war with the ghost of an evil witcher could only end badly. Yet here he is, stupid enough to try it anyways. He can’t even get himself to brush off the words like he knows he should.

“The mother didn’t favour slavery,” Drakon says softly. He leans his head against the wall and looks up at the glowing plants that grow all over the tunnel. “Why would she? She created this world, full of different species as it is. Cleary she valued diversity.”

“But what if she didn’t?” The ghost presses. “What would you do then?”

“Change religions,” Drakon replies without thinking.

With a start, he realizes the sheer ridiculousness of this situation. His country is about to be invaded, and here he is, debating religion with the witcher who murdered his goddess’s consort. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry.

Again, the ghost laughs, but this time, it sounds almost appreciative. “Good answer,” he says, “Watch out, little prince. I might start to like you yet.” His form flickers and he reappears in a standing position. “You don’t want to believe me about the Mother,” he says, looking down on Drakon. “That’s you choice to make. But before you count on any divine assistance, you might still want to consider the possibility that I am _right_.”


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: hallucinations, alcoholism (sort of, just tagging both to be sure. Which reminds me, if there are any triggers I should tag, please let me know!)

## Chapter 36

The soldiers came in the early hours of the morning. The village was small, with just over two hundred people, most of them farmers since most soldiers had left for the war when it began. The people never stood a chance. It’s a wonder they even managed to get a warning out, but by the time reinforcements arrived from a nearby town, nothing but smoking ruins remained of the village, the corpses of its inhabitants cooling between the debris.

Drakon stands amidst the wreckage and stares at the corpses. If not for him, they might still be alive. Killing them was unnecessary, their deaths benefited no one. No, this is simply Ravenia’s way to make a point, to show the entire world and Drakon especially that she doesn’t tolerate opposition.

“You don’t need to come every time,” Sinna says from where she’s standing next to Drakon.

In the month since his meeting with Ravenia, this is the twelfth village that gets destroyed like this. Ravenia didn’t invade Erithia like Drakon first feared, likely because she didn’t want to spare the soldiers it would need to take and hold an entire territory. So instead of attacking Drakon’s country, she attacked his people, sending small bands of soldiers to destroy and kill as they see fit.

“Yes, I do.” He couldn’t save these people. The least he owes them is to be there to witness their deaths.

Nephelle appears between two houses and walks over to them, face grave.

“How many this time?” Drakon asks.

Ravenia’s soldiers always operate the same way: They destroy every house in the village, except for one. There, they lock up all the village children after they murdered everyone else. So in each village, Drakon’s soldiers find a group of scared children who sometimes spent hours locked in a house after watching their parents get murdered.

“Nine.” Nephelle tries to brush dirt from her left wing but only succeeds in smearing it further. “Four of them have surviving family in other parts of the country.”

Drakon nods. “Please make sure that they get brought to their families. Give the other children to the town magistrate, they are to find foster families for them.”

At least that should be no trouble. Fae children are considered sacred and there has been no lack of families that happily offer to take in a war orphan. Still, Drakon dreads the day when there will be no more volunteers and he’ll have to force families to take in children.

“You should go if you don’t want to be late for your meeting,” Sinna says. “I’ll see to it that the dead get burned with all necessary honours.

Outside of the city, some of his soldiers have already begun to construct a pyre. Drakon usually helps with that and stays until the dead have turned to smoke rising towards the sky, but today, he’s short of time. There is an Alliance council meeting in an hour and he has been trying to attend those more frequently lately. He might still call the meeting off today, but he gave Miryam his word that he’d come.

“Could you tell my ruling council that I want to meet with them in the evening?” Drakon asks. “We need to discuss possible strategies against Ravenia’s soldiers.”

Unfortunately, Drakon doubts that this meeting will be any more successful than the last ones were. They simply don’t have enough soldiers to guard each and every village. Drakon suggested moving the inhabitants of the smaller villages closer to bigger cities where they would have more protection, but few people would be willing to abandon their homes. Besides, as several of his councilmembers informed him, the villages are largely responsible for Erithia’s agriculture, so telling their people to flee to the cities would likely lead to famines on the long run.

But maybe today, they’ll find a solution. Drakon has lots of very smart people working for him, he’s sure one of them will come up with something. He has to believe it.

He says goodbye to Sinna, who is already busy giving orders to her soldiers, and winnows back to their camp to change into something more presentable. However, when he enters his tent, he finds Miryam sitting on his bed. Before he has the chance to speak, she jumps to her feet and hugs him.

“I just heard,” she says softly. “How many?”

“Over two hundred.” His voice shakes, but there’s no one but Miryam to hear, so he doesn’t try to steady himself.

“I’m so sorry.” Miryam lets go of him, but keeps her hand resting on his arm. “They spared the children again?”

Drakon nods, thinking that the Loyalists never spare human children when they sack their villages. Even when the Loyalists commit crimes of war and slaughter innocents, they still treat humans and Fae differently.

“The council won’t send any help, will it?” He asks.

“Erithia isn’t the only Fae country that’s getting attacked,” Miryam says, “With how the war is developing, I doubt any one will be able to spare much help, if any.” She presses her lips together. “We’ll be lucky if none of them leave the Alliance.”

After Ravenia started her attack on Erithia, it only took a few weeks for the other Loyalist countries to take up the tactic. Widespread belief in the Alliance has it that the Ravenia hopes to frighten them into submission, although Miryam told Drakon that she doesn’t believe that Ravenia ever planned for her strategy to be copied. Either way, the strategy to scare the Alliance seems to work.

“I ought to change clothes if we don’t want to be late,” Drakon says, changing the subject.

Miryam nods and turns her back to him to give him some privacy. Drakon begins to open the straps of his armour. “And how are you?” He asks.

She shrugs. “I just had another discussion with Mor. She told me I should leave Jurian.”

“Again?” That would be the third time already.

“Yep.” Even with her back turned to him, Drakon can imagine Miryam making a face at the tent’s wall. “I appreciate her concern, I truly do. But it’s just… I _told her_ I’m fine.”

“And you are?” Miryam starts to turn around, then seems to remember that Drakon is just changing clothes and stops mid-motion. “Not about Jurian,” Drakon clarified quickly. So far, he very purposefully stayed out of Miryam’s relationship with Jurian. He doesn’t really have a right to comment on that, given his situation. “I just meant…” He meant that Miryam looks terrible and it’s getting worse with each day. “Things with your powers are fine, aren’t they? You’ve got it under control?”

He reaches for a dark coat a servant already prepared for him and puts it on.

“You don’t need to worry,” Miryam says, face still turned to the wall. “Things are just a little stressful at the moment, but it’s alright.”

Drakon hesitates, torn between knowing that he should accept her answer and worry that there might be something she isn’t telling him. She really doesn’t look well. But of course, with how the war is going lately, there are a thousand perfectly normal explanations. And at the end of the day, if Miryam says it’s alright, he doesn’t get to contradict her.

“Good,” he says, tightening the last button of his jacket. “I’m done. You can turn back around.”

\----

Sitting in the council’s meeting chamber, Miryam does her best to ignore the shadows dancing through the room. They curl and twist around each other, occasionally forming humanoid figures. They whisper in voices Miryam can’t understand, which is beyond irritating given that she is actually supposed to be paying attention to the _meeting_.

For three hours, they have been arguing. The Fae countries are getting attacked, but instead of looking for a productive solution, they seem content to complain and argue with each other. Twice already did one of them hint at wanting to leave the war behind. Of course, the humans aren’t amused at all by this discussion – after all, _they_ have been dealing with what the Fae are now facing ever since the war began and most of them have little patience for their complaints. She can imagine how Jurian would react if he had chosen to come along.

Miryam has been trying to keep the peace ever since the meeting began and she is so tired of it. It’s like some of these Fae realize only now that this is serious. She exchanges a look with Drakon, who shrugs helplessly. Behind him, the shadows keep dancing. Miryam’s head is pounding.

“Lady Miryam,” one of the Fae rulers says, “What is your stance on this?”

Her stance? Her stance is the same as during most meetings: To stop arguing and start working on the problem. Why is it that she always has to stop an argument first before they can start looking for a solution? Damnit, if the council would manage to work together just once, they might have won this war and ended slavery already.

She never had much patience for this, but now that it’s painfully obvious that she’s running out of time, it’s even worse. No one noticed what is wrong with her yet, but Miryam has been seeing the shadows for two weeks now, and with how quickly the hallucinations get worse, she doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to hide it anymore. If the council finds out that she’s slowly losing her mind, she’ll be stripped of her position in a minute and so far, she has no idea who could replace her. Andromache and Zeku would be the most likely candidates, but neither have the necessary backing from the other fraction of the council.

“Lady Miryam?” The Fae repeats.

Miryam looks around the table and realizes that everyone is watching her, waiting. Not only that, they’re clearly expecting her to say something to settle this argument. Wonderful.

“These are difficult times,” she says. “War on the Continent has always followed certain rules. The Loyalists have now broken them.” One of the human Alliance members snorts and Miryam is quick to continue. “They have been breaking them ever since the war began, but so far, no one cared because it only ever went against the human.”

Now, a few of the Fae look displeased. They would rather focus on their own suffering – none of them are particularly interested in hearing that other people have been going through worse for years already.

“I know,” Miryam continues, hoping that she won’t mess this up, “that many people here have been reconsidering their alliance as of late.” She purposefully says _people_ , even though she actually means _Fae_. “Let this be your final proof that anyone who hopes he can declare neutrality and get out of this fight unscathed will be sorely disappointed. The Loyalists don’t follow Continental codes of _honour_ and should they win, none of us can expect any leniency.” She leans forward in her seat. “It’s time for us all to face the truth,” she says and means that the humans have known it from the beginning. “This isn’t a common war because we don’t have the option to surrender. We either win or we die – Ravenia will allow no other option.”

This is, of course, complete rubbish. Should the Loyalists win, Miryam is nearly certain that the Alliance Fae will be just fine. They might lose parts of their influence, just enough to annoy them, but they won’t be harmed. Ravenia, horrible as she may be, has no interest in enslaving Fae. Even her promise to kill everyone in Erithia was likely an empty threat – should she win, Miryam doubts she would go through with it. Ravenia doesn’t murder Fae unless it benefits her in some way.

But that doesn’t matter. What matter is that the Alliance Fae _believe_ that it is their freedom, their future, at stake. They don’t care enough about the humans to fight this war for them? Then Miryam is simply going to convince them that they are fighting for _themselves_.

“You don’t have to believe me, of course,” she says and now, she does turn to the Fae side of the room. “You can leave this Alliance right now. Declare neutrality, take your soldiers back to your own country and pray to your gods that the Loyalists will let you be. And maybe they will. But if they don’t – and I can assure you that they won’t – there will be no one left to help you. You will be on your own, and you won’t stand a chance.”

Now, the Fae no longer seem angry, but rather worried. A few of them exchange nervous glances. They actually believe her – maybe because many of them somehow believe that Miryam has some sort of secret knowledge on Ravenia’s plans, or maybe just because she voiced worries they already had.

“But if you don’t want to take your chances on your own,” she says, “then this Alliance is your best hope. And since all of our lives are at stake here, I suggest we finally stop arguing and start working together to _win this war_.”

The silence that follows is almost tangible. Into it, one of the shadows lets out a shrill laugh and Miryam has to keep from flinching.

“Well,” Andromache says, breaking the silence, “I think that about covers it. If anyone wants to leave. The door is over there.”

A few of the Fae exchange looks again, but none of them move.

“Then perhaps we ought to discuss possible strategies to fight back against the Loyalists,” Zeku says. And that’s what they do.

By the time the meeting is over, Miryam is about ready to curl up in her bed and sleep for a day. At least the shadows are gone and her power has calmed down considerably, but she’s still tired.

“Miryam?” Andromache puts a hand on her arm. “Can we talk?”

She considers excusing herself, but now that she thinks about it, she isn’t all too eager to go back to her camp. “Sure,” she says.

Andromache leads her past the official meeting rooms and up a flight of stairs. The guards posted along the corridors incline their heads as they walk past.

“Where are we going?” Miryam asks.

“My quarters. They offer a little more privacy.”

All of the queens have their private quarters in the palace in Telique, since the human queens spent almost as much time there as in their own kingdoms. The close connection between the human kingdoms has always been frowned upon by the Fae, but the humans’ precarious situation on the Continent has made it necessary to stick together.

Andromache’s kingdom owns an entire floor in the palace’s left wing. She herself lives in a small suite of interconnecting rooms when she is here. Two guards open the door for them; Andromache leads Miryam to the living room, dismisses her servants and walks over to the cupboard.

“Do you want wine?” She asks, then shakes her head. “No, wait, you don’t drink. Water, then?”

“Yes, please.” Andromache hands her a glass and Miryam smiles. “Thank you.”

The queen lets herself plop down on a sofa and gestures for Miryam to take a seat. “Quite the meeting. Do you think your little trick will work?”

Miryam shrugs. “We’ll know soon enough.”

If it didn’t work, it will likely cost them this war. With the Loyalists now attacking civilians, many Alliance countries will find the cost of the war too high. If they believe they can get away with it, they’ll cut their losses and declare neutrality and losing their support would deal the Alliance a huge blow, likely permanently tipping the scales in favour of the Loyalists.

Andromache seems to think the same, because she asks, “Have you gotten any further with the wall?”

“Yes.” Miryam takes a sip from her water to buy herself some time. The spell she’s working on scares her almost as much as the current developments of the war, but for entirely different reasons. “I just need to test the spell I wrote. If it works, I’m done. If not…” She shrugs. “I suppose then I need to start over, I just have no idea where.”

“Then let’s hope it works,” Andromache says gravely.

Miryam nods, feeling terrible about herself. She knows how important this spell is, yet there’s a small part of her that desperately hopes it won’t work. With how her power has been acting lately, she has now idea how she’s supposed to get through a spell this powerful. Chances are she won’t be able to do it.

“Is this what you wanted to talk about?” She asks, hoping to change the subject.

“Well.” Andromache takes a sip from her wine. “Not entirely. Mor asked me to talk to you, you see.”

“Ah.” Miryam sighs. It seems like today, the world wants to make her deal with all of her least favourite topics today. “This again.”

She already had this argument with Mor thrice. Apparently, Mor now got the idea that she would be more inclined to listen to Andromache. Too bad for her, since Miryam has no inclination to discuss this matter again.

“I know this annoys you,” Andromache says quickly. “And believe me, the last thing I want to do is to stick my nose into your private matters. But Mor worries about you, and quite frankly, so do I.”

“I already told Mor: I’m fine.”

“Have you by chance looked into a mirror lately?” Andromache asks.

Yes, Miryam has and she knows fully well how terrible she looks. Mostly sleepless nights have made her eyes permanently lined with shadows. She also lost weight – not because she doesn’t eat, she _does_ , but her power combined with the stress seem to burn through any food too quickly for her to keep up. Her face has grown thinner, almost gaunt, making her look older than her twenty-three years.

If she’s being honest, she can’t entirely blame Mor and Andromache for being worried. She just doesn’t like the conclusion they come to.

“Five years of war,” she says. “Thousands of dead people and still no end in sight. And you think the reason why I look unwell is _Jurian_?”

“No, of course not.” Andromache sighs. “But something is clearly wrong, and it’s not just the war. And forgive me for saying it, but it is hardly a secret that things between Jurian and you have not been going well for quite some time.”

Miryam pointedly looks away. Having trouble in her relationship is bad enough. But with Miryam and Jurian both famous amongst the soldiers, the details of their relationship crises are discussed around campfires throughout the entire Continent. Jurian doesn’t seem overly bothered by it – maybe because his soldiers never repeat the rumours in his presence – but Miryam, who is far more involved in politics, has quite some trouble with those rumours.

“May I ask you a question?” Andromache asks. Miryam nods, even though she fears she might yet regret it. “Do you still love him.”

“Of course,” Miryam replies without missing a beat. What kind of question is this? As if she’d ever stop loving Jurian.

Andromache nods slowly. “And do you enjoy spending time together?”

Miryam looks away. The answer should be as easy as that to the last question, but she can’t quite get herself to say it. “It’s war,” she says, “We have little time to do things that are particularly enjoyable.”

“But do you feel better when you are together?” Andromache presses. “Do you miss him when he’s not around? Does being with him make things more bearable?”

_No._ The thought stings, but it is true. Spending time with Jurian too often is like walking barefoot over broken glass – no matter how careful you are, you still end up cutting yourself. All of their conversations circle around the war and the slightest mistake leads to an argument. How could this make her feel _better_? More and more often, she has to force herself to spend time with him, which just makes her feel worse about herself.

“Sometimes love isn’t enough,” Andromache says softly. “If you don’t fit together – “

“But we _do_ fit.”

They’ve been together for the past five years, after all. And they _do_ fit. Nearly perfectly. They understand each other, or they used to, they have the same goals. It’s always been them together against the world. And Jurian is a great person. She loves him, damnit.

“This isn’t forever,” she whispers, “Things are just a little difficult at the moment. With the war and everything…” Her grip around the glass tightens and she has to force her fingers to loosen so that she won’t shatter it. “We’ve been together for five years. I can’t just throw all that away simply because things get a little difficult.”

“You’re unhappy, though.” Andromache delicately sets her wine glass down on the table. “And you have been for quite some time. I simply don’t understand why you insist on remaining in a situation that makes you unhappy.”

“He helped me as well,” Miryam says, “When I couldn’t… He was always there for me.” He isn’t now, but that’s irrelevant. “And now he is the one who needs my help. How could I just abandon him? I need to at least try to…” She shakes her head.

Of course, trying hasn’t really helped much yet. But she doesn’t want to imagine what her leaving would do to Jurian. He’s already so hurt whenever they argue, if she left… No, she can’t do that to him.

“I can’t just abandon him,” she repeats and stares at Andromache until she nods.

\----

“We could go to the theatre sometime,” Clythia says, “Watch a play. I don’t like that we’re always meeting in secret – it feels like we’re hiding.”

The stupidity in that sentence alone is enough that Jurian has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Once again, Clythia seems completely oblivious to the fact that they fight on opposite sides in this war. Not to mention that her side deems people like Jurian less than animals. And she complains about _secrecy_?

“Maybe when the war is over,” he says as neutrally as possible. “Right now, I don’t think either of our sides would be pleased if we made things public.”

Clythia lets out a bright laugh. “Mara is annoyed enough as it is. She keeps telling me to break up with you, can you imagine? Says I shouldn’t trust you.”

Yes, Jurian actually _can_ imagine that. Unlike her sister, Amarantha seems to possess at least some brain cells, so it’s only logical that she would notice that something’s amiss. Fortunately for Jurian, Clythia isn’t smart enough to listen to her sister.

“Miryam is the same,” Jurian says, feeling terrible about having to make that comparison. “She doesn’t like us meeting either.”

Clythia frowns in answer. “Why do you still bother with her, anyways? She’s as good as dead.”

_You are the one who’s as good as dead, and I’m going to be the one to kill you,_ Jurian thinks, but says, “It’s political,” he lies. “Our relationship is too public, if we break up, there’ll be trouble.”

“She’ll break up with you, though,” Clythia says lightly. “And she’ll die. Something to do with that Fae friend of hers, I think.”

Jurian’s stomach twists. “Drakon?”

Is that another prophecy? And if so, does that mean the future changed, or has it just grown more concrete? He digs his fingers into the grassy ground. He refuses to believe this. It just can’t be true.

“Yes, him.” Clythia grins “Which reminds me, do you have any idea what Ravenia wants with him? Mara keeps coming up with theories about that. She’s very curious about…”

Jurian stops listening to her. He doesn’t particularly care about Ravenia’s interest in Drakon, or any theories Amarantha might have come up with. He can’t stand this, can’t stand any of this. He just wants Clythia and Amarantha dead already. Maybe then, everything could go back to normal. Maybe if they were dead, his life would stop falling apart in his hands.

He manages to endure Clythia and her prattling for a few more minutes before he makes up some reason to excuse himself. She kisses him as a goodbye and he has to clamp down on the urge to gag.

He makes it ten minutes away from the tent before he has to slide off his horse and retch behind a bush. Shaking, he kneels on the ground. His eyes burn, but he refuses to cry. His horse nudges him in the side, presses its warm snout into Jurian’s face. He smiles and runs his fingers through the soft fur, then hoists himself back into the saddle.

Miryam is still awake when Jurian slips into their tent. She’s sitting at the table, papers full of scrawling symbols spread out before her, frowning slightly. When Jurian enters, she looks up. He strolls past her to the cupboard, pulls out a bottle of liquor and takes a deep swig.

Bottle still in hand, he sits down opposite Miryam. She remains silent, waiting for him to speak first. Jurian takes up his bottle again and drains a quarter of it in one go. He holds Miryam’s eyes as he does, daring her to disagree. She doesn’t like when he drinks like this, but when he returns from a meeting with Clythia, she usually lets him.

“No new intel today?” Miryam asks.

Jurian merely takes another swig and shakes his head. _Just that you’re still going to die And you’ll leave me._ He can’t stand this, none of it. This entire war is killing him.

“You met with Drakon today, didn’t you?” He asks before Miryam can decide to ask after his meeting with Clythia.

“Yes.”

Miryam’s reply is question and answer in one, her tone hesitant like she is worried about what will follow. It occurs to Jurian that he hasn’t shown interest in anything concerning Drakon since their falling out. Miryam did her best to get him to care about the current situation in Erithia, but why would he be particularly interested in one territory when the entire Continent is suffering?

Especially when it concerns Drakon. Jurian thinks back to Clythia’s words. If he’s going to get Miryam killed…

“Don’t you think you’re spending a little too much time with him?” He asks hesitantly.

Miryam straightens. “What do you mean by that?” Any tiredness has vanished from her eyes

“I just…” Jurian fidgets in his seat and takes another sip from his bottle. The alcohol is beginning to set in and his head feels strangely light. The accusing tone in Miryam’s voice annoys him. Why does she insist on meeting with Drakon so often, anyways?

“You spend more time with him than with me,” he says, realizing too late that this makes him sound like a sullen child.

“You can’t be serious.” Miryam shakes her head softly. When Jurian doesn’t reply, she leans back in her seat. “How about you tell me what this is actually about. Now.”

“He’ll get you killed,” Jurian whispers. He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe it’s a result of the alcohol. Probably. If so, he should take a note from Miryam and stop drinking.

“He’ll _what_?”

Jurian considers storming out of the tent, but now that he started it, there’s nothing he can do about it anymore. Miryam’s nothing if not determined – she will find out what this is about whether he wants her to or not. He looks down at his hands, unwilling to meet her eyes as he speaks.

“Clythia said that you’d die,” he says haltingly, stumbling over the words. He can’t quite bring himself to say it out loud. “Before the war ends. She says it’s certain.” He pauses. “And she said that Drakon would play a role in it.”

Miryam doesn’t reply. Jurian waits a moment, but then, he can’t take it anymore. The silence becomes unbearable, it presses against him from all sides like a wet blanket. Slowly, he looks up. Miryam doesn’t look half as shocked as he imagined, given that he just told her that she would _die_. In fact, she looks like she’s far more shocked by his behaviour than by Clythia’s prophecy.

“You don’t believe me,” he says flatly.

“No, I don’t believe _Clythia_.” Miryam rests her head on her hands. “And quite frankly, I’m stunned that you do. Don’t you think that Clythia – an enemy commander who is obsessed with you and hates me – might have reason to tell you that I’ll die and any relationship between us therefore has no future?”

So it’s not that she doesn’t believe him, she just doesn’t trust his judgement. “She didn’t seem like she was lying.”

“I don’t seem like I’m lying when I’m lying,” Miryam shoots back. “That’s kind of the point.”

This is exactly why Jurian hates arguing with Miryam. Somehow, she always manages to end up making a point that is impossible to argue with. And right now, well, right now, he feels stupid on top of that.

“Aren’t you worried about this at all?” he asks, because he refuses to just let the subject drop.

“I don’t see why I should be.” Miryam shrugs. “The way I see it, Clythia is either lying, in which case I’m fine and don’t need to worry, or she’s telling the truth, in which case I will die and no one is able to do anything about it, so worrying won’t change anything about it.”

Jurian glares down at his feet. He was worried Miryam would freak out, but her indifference bothers him even more. He takes another swig from his bottle, realizing that it is almost empty already. Maybe Miryam really does have a point about his current drinking habits, but the alcohol makes the pain in his chest fade to a dull aching. And he just can’t bear to constantly be in pain.

Miryam sighs. “Let’s face it, Jur,” she says, voice softer than before. “This war is no place for people whose biggest care is their own survival.” She smiles softly. “It’s not that I want to die. Quite the contrary. I’d very much _like_ to see this peace we’re fighting for, and maybe sort my life out somewhere along the way. But if I don’t survive, then I certainly won’t complain as long as we _win_.”

Wonderful. Now Miryam somehow managed to argue that her own death is acceptable in a way that Jurian can’t even argue with. After all, he feels the same way about his own life.

He drains the last bit of his bottle. His head is pleasantly light now, and his problems seem almost bearable. He peers at the papers on Miryam’s desk. “Is that the wall spell?”

“Yes.” Miryam carefully puts her papers on a stack. “I’ve been working on it all afternoon.”

“Any news?”

That would be some good news for once. And right now, Jurian desperately needs some good news. There’s too much going terribly wrong right now, but maybe if this spell works, things will finally start going right again.

“Yes.” Miryam presses her lips together and Jurian braces for her to tell him that it isn’t going to work. “I’m finished,” Miryam says.

There is such a discrepancy between her words and her tone that it takes Jurian a few moments to understand what she is trying to say. “You’re finished?” He repeats. Miryam nods.

Jurian jumps to his feet. Too quickly. The ground sways under him and he has to grip the table to keep from falling. “ _Yes_.”

He pulls Miryam to her feet and spins her around. She lets out a startled sound, somewhere between laugh and gasp. He pulls her close and kisses her.

“You’re brilliant,” he tells her, “Absolutely brilliant.”

Miryam smiles back at him. She looks tired, but if she spent all day working on the spell, that’s only logical. He kisses her again. Finally some good news – they’ll have to tell the others right away. The sooner they cast the spell the safer they will all be.

Miryam wraps her arms around him. “I love you,” she says softly, “You know that, right?”

“Of course.”

Why does she even need to ask this? They belong together, they always have. Although maybe lately, Jurian has been a bit too busy with the war. But he can’t help that, Miryam should understand. Of course she understands.

“I love you too,” he whispers and pulls her close to him.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: hallucinations (heavier then last time), panic attack (or something similar). Please skip the third scene if any of these things are triggering for you!

## Chapter 37

“Before we proceed with this,” Miryam tells the human councilmembers a day after she finished her spell, “there are two problems we need to discuss.”

They are meeting in one of the southern human-owned palaces that they already used once, which is a good thing, since Miryam isn’t sure if she could have managed to create any wards today. She spent the entire night tossing from one side to another in bed, too nervous to sleep. Her power has been acting up as well, flaring and ceasing seemingly at random.

“The first problem is that the spell needs to be cast as soon as possible, but can’t take effect immediately because it’s meant as a security measure,” she says. The others are watching her in silence, all of them tense. They all spent the past years waiting for this, and now, Miryam has the attention of the entire room. “This means that there needs to be a way to activate the spell at any given point at time after it has been cast, and it can’t be just me who is able to do it, since that would leave the spell useless should I die. I’ll get to the solution for that in a moment.”

Now, Nakia does interrupt after all. “If you already solved the problem, why are we discussing this? Isn’t it enough that the spell works?”

“Unfortunately not. Because the second problem is that I don’t have enough power to make the spell work.”

That earns her some dismayed looks, but it is true. Even if she combined every trick she knows – the strongest grounding spells, bones and gemstones and blood to draw more power – it wouldn’t be enough. She could cast the damned spell during a solar eclipse and still wouldn’t even come close to the level of power necessary to as good as split the world in two.

“Remember how I said this is impossible?” She asks. “Well, this is what I meant.”

“And your solution is…” Andromache leaves the end of the sentence hanging in the air and looks at Miryam expectantly.

Miryam has to resist the urge to fidget. “There is another way for a witch to get power. It’s called Sacrifice.”

Jurian and the queens tense in their seats, staring at Miryam like she just suggested they jump off a cliff.

“What kind of sacrifices?” One of the independent human generals asks.

“It means…” Miryam hesitates. “It means that you use up another person’s life force. Or their soul, as some might call it. The person who gets Sacrificed dies in the process, their very essence gets destroyed, but the power it generates…” She shakes her head, trying to shut down the memories. A circle on the ground, Artax smiling. Her mother looking at her. “I’ve seen it happen,” she says tightly, “but I’ve never done it myself – and I’ve sworn I never would. But if we want this spell to work, it’s the only way.”

For a moment, silence reins around the table. People exchange uncomfortable looks. Miryam almost hopes they’ll reject the idea, call it monstrous and tell her that it’s not worth it.

“How many…” Andromache begins, but cuts herself off. “I mean, theoretically. If we were to do this. How many people are we talking about?”

“Six.”

Together with the caster – Miryam, in this case – that makes it seven people involved in the spell, which is a good number. Artax usually goes one further, using forty-eight Sacrifices, making it two times seven people involved, but Miryam could never bring herself to Sacrifice this many people, even if such a huge number of People wasn’t too unwieldy for this particular spell. Even the idea of using six is horrifying.

“Well,” Jurian says, “At the danger of sounding like an asshole, but is this a problem? We take prisoner after each victory and most of them get killed either way. Why not use them?”

Murmurs of agreement rise around the table. Miryam feels sick. This entire discussion is _wrong_. She doesn’t want to do this, not at all.

“Because I need to tie the spell’s activation to the Sacrifices, and I don’t know how to do this if they aren’t willing.”

This gets her confused looks. Miryam sighs and begins to explain.

“The Sacrifices won’t happen when the spell is cast, but when – _if_ – we actually activate it. _They_ will have to be the ones to say the final words, since we can’t count on me being around to do it, and because of that, they will have to participate willingly.”

Again, silence follows. “So we need volunteers,” Andromache says finally, “This means humans.”

Miryam nods slowly, staring down at her hands. “With families, preferably. It’s a blood spell, so if one of the people we pick dies, close relatives will work as well.”

She can’t believe she’s saying this. She _despises herself_ for it. Hasn’t she sworn to never do it? She’s going to _murder_ _people_ , damnit. Worse than murder, actually. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. This is just what all these other witches do. What Artax does.

“Six people you say,” Nakia says softly. “Then the matter is clear.”

Andromache catches on before Miryam does. “You mean…”

Nakia simply nods. “It needs to be someone from this room, if only for secrecy reasons. And really, what types of rulers would we be if we asked anyone else to step in for us?”

Miryam opens her mouth to object, then closes it again. She doesn’t know what to say, what to feel. She is torn between newfound respect for Nakia and horror at the fact that they expect her to as good as kill some of her closest friends. But would it be better if they were strangers?

_Please_ , she thinks, begging Jurian, Andromache, anyone. _Please, stop this. Don’t ask me to do this. I can’t, please don’t make me._

But Andromache nods slowly. “Then it’s decided.” She turns to Miryam. “You tie the spell to the six of us.”

\----

“I can’t do this,” Miryam whispers.

In an hour she will meet the human queens in a clearing outside of Telique. The timing is perfect so that she can cast the spell at noon when the sun is at its peak and so is the power. She took every precaution, but she’s still scared out of her mind. Her fingers are shaking and the shadows have been around all day, lurking at the edge of her vision.

“What?” Jurian asks. They are both sitting in his tent, he on the table, she on the bed. “I thought the spell worked.”

“It does.” Miryam wraps her arms around herself like she can keep herself from falling apart that way. “But I… I can’t do this, Jur.”

She’s so scared. Scared of what is happening to her, and absolutely terrified of what casting that spell might do. She doesn’t want to do this. Just for once, she wants to be _allowed_ to be scared. She wants to sit down on the floor and cry, and for Jurian to put an arm around her and tell her that everything will be alright. That he understands, that she doesn’t have to do this if she doesn’t want to.

Instead, he glares at her. “I just don’t understand you, Miryam. This spell could save millions of people, you have been working on it for years, and now you say that you _can’t_?”

One of the shadows lets out a shrill laugh. Miryam feels tears burning in her eyes and furiously wipes them away, but the tears just keep coming.

Jurian sighs. “Sorry. I just…” He puts a hand on her arm. “Are you scared of having to cast the spell? You don’t need to be. Come on, Miryam, you’re brilliant at this.”

That just makes her cry harder. Did she truly lie so well? But she doesn’t want him to _not_ know. They always solved everything together, so maybe they could find a solution for this, too. Maybe Jurian will say just the right thing to make it better, or he will even find a way to get her out of this. She just needs to tell him.

“No,” she says, stumbling over the words. How is she supposed to explain? “I’m not…” She hesitates and Jurian frowns at her. “These problems I’ve been having with my power, they’re bigger than – “

The door to the tent opens and Miryam flinches, but it’s just a soldier who enters. He inclines his head and passes Jurian a note. Jurian quickly scans the contents, then looks back up at Miryam.

“Amarantha’s army is on the move.” Miryam knows what he’s about to say next, even though she desperately hopes he will not. But Jurian only looks conflicted for a moment, then says, “They’ll be passing through a forest – it’s perfect terrain for an ambush. I need to go make a plan, we don’t have much time.”

“But what about the spell?” Miryam asks. She hates how small her voice sounds. “You promised you would come along.”

“I know.” Jurian sighs and takes her hands in his. “But I can’t really help with the spell anyways. I’ll be useless there, but here, I could win us a real victory.”

His eyes search her face. Clearly he’s hoping for her to agree, but she can’t. Jurian wouldn’t be useless if he came along, because him being there would make the spell at least a little less terrifying. And he promised that he would come, but now, he’s going to go chasing after Amarantha once again and leave her to cast this spell alone. She has no idea what’s going to happen to her once she casts the spell and now, Jurian isn’t even going to there with her. For all she knows, casting it might kill her and if that happens, she wants him to be with her.

“You understand this, don’t you?” Jurian asks, voice pleading.

And just this once, Miryam wants nothing more than to tell him no, she does not understand. Just this once, she wants to beg him to choose _her_ over his revenge, and see what he will do. But she can’t bring herself to say the words. Because no matter what Jurian might once have told her, they both will always be bound to this war first. It’s why Jurian will go to fight Amarantha once again instead of staying behind to help Miryam. And it’s why she will let him go and go to cast the spell alone, even if it kills her to do it.

\----

Miryam’s fingers shake so badly that she has trouble drawing the circle. She keeps having to redo symbols and is much slower than usual; it takes her almost an hour to draw the main circle and the six smaller ones at the sides, one for each of the queens, who stand by and watch her work in silence. The shadows watch as well. They are closer than ever before and their presence terrifies Miryam.

“Alright.” She straightens and pushes an unruly strand of hair out of her eyes. “You need to – “ One of the shadows shrieks and she flinches. “Go stand in the smaller circles please.” Now, her voice is trembling ever so slightly. “I’ll activate the circles now.”

The queens follow her request without a word. Miryam wonders if they are as nervous as she is, or if they simply believe that an important moment like this should be greeted in silence. Miryam would have preferred for them to talk, the silence is nearly unbearable.

All too soon, everyone is in place and Miryam has inspected the circle one final time. There is no excuse to delay this any further.

_Step by step_ , she tells herself, gripping the paper with the spell so hard she crumples it, _Just activate the circle, then keep going from there. This is okay, you can do this._

Slowly, carefully pronouncing each word, she begins to speak. The strings thicken around her immediately, new ones appear for her to hold onto. The candles she put up around the circle flicker to life, flames dance around her. For a moment, everything is going well.

Then, her power flares so hard it nearly slips her grip. The flames are suddenly reaching far too high. The shadows move closer. They dance around her, mingling with the strings, and scream her name in a thousand voices.

“Stop,” Miryam whispers. “ _Stop_.”

She has enough control left to clamp down on her power. It protests, cutting through her like a knife, but the flames die down. Tears run down her cheeks and she is shaking so badly that the paper slips out of her grip and falls to the ground.

“Miryam?” Andromache asks softly. She is still standing in her circle and watching her from dark, worried eyes.

“I can’t do this,” Miryam manages.

Stumbling, she takes a step backwards, then another, until she is out of the circle.

“Miryam.” Andromache reaches out for her, but she doesn’t seem to dare to leave her circle. “What’s wrong?”

Miryam can’t answer. The shadows are still there, lurking between the trees and she just can’t do this. Can’t face this. Sobbing, she turns around and runs into the forest. She is still crying, tears reducing the trees to shades. She doesn’t know how long she’s been running when her foot catches on something and she ends up sprawled on the forest floor. Pain races through her foot, but it’s nothing compared to what her power is doing to her.

With shaking arms, Miryam pulls herself into a sitting position, back leaning against a tree. But then, the shadows are back. They press in on her, screaming, whispering, crying out for her. Miryam presses her hands against her ears but the voices only grow louder.

“Go away!” She screams. That makes them laugh. Her power flares, but she won’t let it out, so it just keeps rebounding through her body and it _hurts_.

“I most certainly will not,” a new voice says, cutting through the noise.

It startles Miryam enough that she looks up, only to come face to face with Nakia. The old queen is frowning at her. Around them, the shadows pull back, their whispers growing fainter as if they are curious what the queen wants from her.

“Get up,” Nakia says. Her voice clangs through the forest like a whip.

“I can’t.” Miryam is still crying. She tries to wipe the tears away, but her hands are shaking too badly.

“You are the leader of this Alliance.” Nakia’s voice is iron, cold and unyielding. “Unsuited as you are to the positions, you chose it. You don’t get to lay down and cry about all the things you can’t do. And now _get up_.”

Miryam shakes her head. “I never wanted this,” she whispers. Her magic flares again and she curls up on herself, whimpering. “I never wanted to lead the Alliance, I just…” Her voice breaks.

“Bullshit.” There is not a hint of sympathy in Nakia’s voice. “Of course you chose this, or do you want to convince me that you somehow failed to notice what you’ve been doing these past few years.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “We had decided that this war was madness, but you couldn’t accept that, could you? You thought you knew better, so you dragged the entire Continent into a war without ever thinking that if we lost, millions might die.”

This makes Miryam cry even harder, but Nakia isn’t finished.

“And afterwards – did you ever stand back? Did you ever, just for one moment, think that maybe a little girl like you has no business telling a bunch of adults what to do?” She snorts. “But no, not the great Miryam. You just never _shut up_ , do you?”

Miryam shakes her head. The pain is nearly unbearable and the shadows are moving in again. “I only ever wanted to save them,” she whispers. “Everything I did…”

“What you _did_ ,” Nakia cuts her off, “dragged an entire Continent into war. What you did risked the life of every human on this Continent. And now you have the nerve to sit down and cry because you _can’t_?”

Nakia reaches out and grabs her by the arms, dragging her to her feet with more strength than Miryam thought she had.

When they are almost face to face, Nakia says, “And now, you will go back to this clearing and you will make this right. You _will_ cast that stupid spell, and if it kills you. You owe my people this much.”

Miryam stares at her, trembling. She wants to object, but she can’t think of a way to defend herself. After all, she did cause this war without truly thinking about what might happen if they lost. The queens had decided not to join the fighting and Miryam forced them to. And if she’s entirely honest, she is also the one to blame for her position with the Council. She had every chance to stand back, but chose not to. Maybe this is punishment.

With shaking fingers, Miryam wipes her tears away. “Alright,” she whispers. “I’ll try.”

“Good.”

On the way back to the clearing, Miryam keeps stumbling over her own feet, but when Nakia offers her a hand, she shakes her head and keeps walking on her own. The other queens are still standing in their circles, varying degrees of worry on their faces.

“Is everything alright?” Andromache asks.

Miryam nods, but keeps her eyes trained on the ground. The paper with her spell is still lying on the ground where she dropped it, but by now, the sun has almost reached its zenith. She’ll need to hurry if she doesn’t want to miss the correct moment to cast the spell. At least the circles are still active.

“Good,” she says, mostly to calm herself. “This is fine.” The shadows seem to disagree since they move in more closely, but Miryam does her best to ignore them and instead turns to the queens. “Don’t leave your circles until the spell is finished,” she says. “I’ll be using a lot of power and you might get scared, but no matter how the spell goes, there are security measures at place to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

Usually, circles like this are keyed to transfer power to the outer circle and protect only the caster in case anything goes wrong, but Miryam changed it around to work the opposite way. Risking other lives to save her own isn’t her style. At least this way, she’ll be the only one who ends up dead if she messes up.

She carefully straightens the paper with the spell. “I’m starting now,” she says. Right about now, she could really use someone telling her that everything will be fine, but no one seems inclined to offer words of reassurance.

The first words are always the most difficult. They burn and cut in her throat and Miryam has to watch out to pronounce them properly. Her power rises, circling higher with each word until it fills the air around them and Miryam has to yank at it to keep it focused on the task she wants it to fulfil. The words come easier now, more natural.

Still, her power keeps rising, higher and higher. She has never gone this far before and soon, it is nearly impossible to keep it in check. Voice trembling, Miryam keeps going, calling power from the air and sky. The sun is shining high above her, its light drawing beams of light into the air.

The power twists in her grip, lashes out. Miryam pulls it back and redirects it towards the net of strings she is weaving, the tear through the world she is instructing it to lay the basis for. The shadows move closer again, screaming, but Miryam is almost finished not. Just a few. More. Words.

But as the spell reaches its climax, so does her power. It strains against her hold and this time, a tendril manages to break free. The strings she was so carefully weaving together tremble and begin to drift apart.

“Sheje,” Miryam hisses.

Her power snaps back to her grip, but now, it is moving around her, shooting through her body. Miryam grits her teeth and continues with the spell. Slowly, the strings fall back into formation.

The last line. Her power builds up, towering over her like a wave about to break. Miryam finishes the last words, voice barely more than a whisper. For a moment, the world seems to hang in a strange balance, suspended in the air. Miryam sees the sunlight glinting through the air, the fear in the eyes of the queens.

Then, her power comes crashing down. It rushes through her, burning like fire, freezing like ice. Before she even has the chance to scream, it is gone again, rushing into the sky, strings scattering and forming anew in its wake. The spell takes form, a tightly woven net of strings, shimmering in a hundred colours.

Miryam’s legs give out from under her and she drops to her knees.

Fire in her veins. Ice and fire, rushing through her. Someone is screaming – maybe her, she can’t tell. Her throat is so sore it feels like it’s bleeding, so it might well be her. The screaming increases, more voices joining in. _That_ definitely isn’t her.

“Miryam?” Someone asks, panicked. “Can you hear me?”

_Yes_ , she wants to say, but her tongue won’t form the word. Her power flares again and now, she is sure that she is screaming, screaming and screaming. The pain simply won’t fade and she can’t _breathe_.

“What’s wrong with her?” Another voice asks.

Finally, Miryam manages to open her eyes, but all she can see are the shadows, pressing in close against her. They are laughing, crying, screaming at her. She tries to crawls back, away from them, but her arms won’t hold her weight and then there are hands grabbing her, holding her in place. She tries to push them away, but the world tilts sidewards and everything around her begins to spin.

For what might as well be a second as a year, there is only pain, and darkness, and incoherent screaming. Miryam is drowning in it, pulled down as if weighed down by stones. Finally, she manages to fight her way back to the surface. She opens her eyes, gasping for air.

She’s lying on her back, and a woman is kneeling over her. Dark, curly hair, brown skin and a kind smile. Miryam stares at her, too stunned truly understand.

“Mom?” She finally whispers, voice breaking.

Her mother reaches out for her, still smiling, but as she does, her hand begins to dissolve into smoke, first the fingers, then the entire arm.

“No!” Miryam makes to grab her, trying to stop her from vanishing entirely, but she has already dissolved into smoke.

Artax appears in her place, staring down at her. Miryam screams and scrambles backwards. Suddenly, the ground is gone from under her, she’s falling, but only for a moment, then she lands hard on the ground.

“Miryam, calm down.” Suddenly, Andromache is kneeling over her, frowning. “You’re safe, nothing can happen to you.”

She reaches out for Miryam, but as she does, her face begins to change and then, it’s not Andromache but Ravenia who is kneeling over her. Miryam lifts her hand, trying to call her power, but it won’t come. Instead, a sharp pain shoots through her chest.

“You need to calm down,” Ravenia says with Andromache’s voice.

“Get away from me,” Miryam gasps.

She tries to crawl away, but her back pushes against something hard. The world is spinning again, and the shadows are back, surrounding her.

“What happened?” A new voice asks, cutting through the general noise.

Miryam tries to focus on it. Someone is talking, she knows, but the words don’t reach her. She groans in pain.

“I don’t know why - ,” someone begins. Then, there’s more talking, but she doesn’t understand the words over the roaring in her ears.

“Where the fuck is Jurian?”

Jurian. Miryam tries to hold onto the name, but it doesn’t work and he isn’t here anyways and she’s caught alone in the dark. It hurts so badly. She tries to move, to somehow escape the pain, but it won’t leave her alone. The shadows are still screaming.

“We need to do something!” Someone snaps, and that’s the last thing she hears before the world goes mercifully silent.

\----

Miryam wakes up in a bed that isn’t her own. She blinks up at the ceiling of the tent – a different colour than hers – for a few moments while her still-slow mind tries to catch up. She attempts to sit up, but her body seizes up and she falls back into the pillows, gasping.

“Miryam.” Before she can truly panic, Drakon appears next to her bed. “It’s alright,” he tells her, “You’re safe.”

Miryam stares at him, trying to figure out if he is actually here. Maybe she’s seeing things again. He did seem to appear rather abruptly.

“Are you in pain?” Drakon asks. “I can get a healer if you need one.” When Miryam doesn’t reply immediately, he turns to the door and she decides that a hallucination likely wouldn’t try calling a healer.

“It’s alright,” she says, although it technically isn’t. Everything hurts so badly she can barely lift her arms and when she tries to reach for her powers, there’s no response.

Drakon hesitates for a moment, watching her as if he’s trying to decide if he needs to get a healer in spite of her reassurance. When he seems satisfied that she isn’t in immediate danger, he pulls a chair that was standing by the beside closer and sits down.

“Here.” He takes a small glass vial from the nightstand and hands it to her. “For the pain.”

Miryam nods in thanks, but when she tries to take the vial, her fingers shake so badly that she can’t grab it. Without commenting, Drakon opens it for her and holds it to her mouth so that she can swallow. The liquid burns in her throat.

“What happened?” Miryam asks.

“I don’t know,” he says. His face is grave. “Andromache refused to tell me, and she only had someone get me after you were already…” He breaks. Miryam shudders at the memory. She remembers all too well what state she was in. The pain, the absolute helplessness. “We decided it would be best to take you to a Fae healer,” Drakon continues, “so I brought you to my camp. That was yesterday.”

Miryam nods. She doesn’t bother to ask if the healer found anything. If the book she read is anything to go by, they won’t be able to help her.

“And Jurian?” She asks. “Does he know where I am?”

Drakon’s face tightens further. Miryam can only imagine that he’s thinking about Jurian’s notable absence during her breakdown, but he doesn’t comment. “Andromache says she’d tell him.”

Miryam nods and leans back into her pillows.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Drakon asks. His voice still sounds strange and for once, Miryam can’t place the emotions in his tone.

“No.” She knows he deserves better than that, but even if she wanted to, she couldn’t tell him about the spell she cast and she doesn’t know how she should explain the other things that happened.

“Then allow me to take a guess.”

Miryam’s bed shifts as something lands on the matrass next to her. She turns and finds a book lying next to her – once she recognizes immediately. Her stomach twists even further.

“You went to the library,” she says.

“Yes. Since you had told me you had your powers under control, I was rather confused when the healers told me you were basically tearing yourself to shreds with it. So I decided to take a look at what had been written in that book you said had helped you.” Anger – that’s what it is. He’s angry, but trying hard to conceal it. “I think you know what I found.”

Miryam pushes herself back in her bed, trying to get into a sitting position. She can’t have this conversation while lying in bed. It’s bad enough that her entire body aches. It takes her embarrassingly long and by the time she is at least somewhat upright, she’s out of breath, but she manages to sit up.

Drakon is still watching her. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” He asks.

“I don’t know what,” Miryam admits. She doesn’t want him to be angry with her, but she can’t take back the lies she told, or stop herself from dying slowly.

“Maybe you could explain why you spent the past year _lying to me_.” He still sounds calm, doesn’t raise his voice even a bit, but she can feel that he’s angry. And disappointed, which is worse.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” she says, “I knew there was nothing to be done, and fretting over it seemed pointless.”

“Nothing to be done?” Drakon repeats. “We tried to find a solution for _one day_ , Miryam. There were a million things we could still have done if only you had said something!”

“And what?” This argument, Miryam decides, would go way better if she wasn’t lying in bed. Or at least if her head stopped hurting this much. “What could we have done? Because the only people who would truly be able to help me are other witches, and the Guild would rather kill me than help me.” She crosses her arms. “We could have done nothing and I wasn’t about to let you waste time used trying to find a solution that isn’t there. Not in the middle of this war.”

Drakon jumps to his feet so quickly that his wings brush against the nightstand. He begins to pace before Miryam’s bed. Miryam watches in silence, without interrupting. Let him come to the conclusion that this is hopeless himself, that will be easier.

“No,” he finally says. He stops walking and turns around to face Miryam. “No, this has nothing to do with the war. You had every option to try and find a solution to this problem. You had over a year to figure something out, but you _chose_ to do nothing.”

Miryam presses her lips together. “The war is more important, I need to – “

“You won’t be able to do it if you’re dead!” Drakon snaps. He shakes a head and runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, like he hasn’t slept all night. “I promised you that you would survive this war, remember?” He asks softly, anger gone. “Well, I intend to keep that promise, even if you seem hell-bent on making it difficult.”

Miryam can’t meet his eyes. He’s right, she realizes. She chose to do nothing not because of the war, but because she was scared. That’s what it always came down to, from the very beginning. Too scared to face her power, too scared to face her past. Deep down, she knew that, and maybe some part of her indeed chose to die rather than confront her fears.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “But there’s nothing you can do.”

Drakon taps his foot against the ground. Looks around the tent like he’s hoping to find the answer there.

“There might be something,” he finally says, “But I’m not sure. I need to go check.” He steps towards the door. “I’ll ask Nephelle to keep you company while I’m gone,” he says, already halfway out of the tent.

“ _Wait_.”

For a moment, Miryam forgets all about her pain and tries to sit up. She immediately regrets it. Groaning in pain, she lets herself drop back into the pillows. Drakon is immediately beside her.

“Do you truly have a solution for this?” Miryam asks. Her mind is still moving to slowly for her to entirely understand what he is saying, but this, she understood.

“I don’t know. Like I said, I need to check.” He begins fidgeting around with the hem of his coat. “And I’m technically not allowed to talk to you about this. About _any_ of this. Just…” He sighs. “I know this is a stupid thing to say, but please just trust me that I would tell you if I could. And that I’ll do whatever I can.”

Miryam doesn’t want Drakon to leave. Chances are he won’t be able to find a solution, anyways. Why would he, if those scholars at the university couldn’t? She doesn’t want him going on some wild chase all alone, trying to find answers that aren’t there. But if it makes him feel better about the fact that there’s nothing to be done about what’s happening to her if he tried, then she won’t stop him.

“Okay,” she says, “Go on. I’ll be waiting.”

Drakon nods tightly. He stands around awkwardly for a moment, as if trying to decide if he should do or say something else.

“I’ll find something,” he finally says and turns for the door.

“Drakon.” She calls him back again. “What did the healers say?” She asks. “How long do I have?”

Drakon pauses in the door, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. “They don’t know for sure,” he says softly, “A month. If you’re lucky.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: slight alcoholism (possibly) in the first scene, mentions of hallucinations in the third scene
> 
> A/N: The fist scene actually starts before the end of the last scene in chapter 37. I hope that's not too confusing. And I added a pov for Andromache!

## Chapter 38

Andromache has been waiting for Jurian to show up for well over an hour now and her mood has been souring with every passing minute. Ever since the spell was cast, she has been feeling strangely light-headed and whenever she touches something, sparks fly between her fingers like there is too much energy stored in her body, trying to get out. She has heard no news from Miryam and badly wants to go check up on her, but instead, she is sitting in this stupid camp waiting for Jurian to come back from his stupid game of cat-and-mouse with Amarantha.

If it was up to her, she would have left already. But unfortunately, she promised Drakon that she would tell Jurian what happened. Not that she should have to tell him at all. No, he should have been right there with the rest of them, not running after Amarantha again. And that’s exactly what Andromache is going to say to him when he gets back, just with far less pleasant words. If he ever gets back, that is.

She shifts her weight on the fence she is sitting on. A few soldiers who pass by give her curious glances and she makes herself smile at them. Much as she would like to scowl and grumble, she is a queen and has to keep up appearances.

The minutes tick by. After a while, Andromache finds that she is hungry. She gets a bowl of stew and sits with a group of soldiers, making pleasant conversation while she eats. When she is done, there is still no sign of Jurian, but she has developed a pounding headache. When she gets up, she sways sightly and has to grip the table to keep from falling. Her head is fuzzy and she feels strangely drunk.

Stupid spell. Stupid Jurian.

For all she knows, it might take hours until he returns to the camp, and Andromache refuses to wait this long. She wants to go to bed right about now. She’ll sleep for a few hours and then come back in the evening to tell Jurian about what happened. If he returns earlier and worries about where Miryam is, too bad for him. As far as Andromache is concerned, a bit of worrying might be good for him, and if Drakon wants to spare him the discomfort, then _he_ can stand around waiting for him.

Andromache finds a half-Fae man with the ability to winnow and asks him to take her back to her own camp. As he winnows her, she feels slightly bad about herself for leaving, but she is too damn tired to care much, so she just tasks the half-Fae with informing Jurian that she wants to speak to him as soon as he returns and stumbles off to her tent. She doesn’t even bother to pull off her shoes before falling into bed.

She wakes up warm and comfortable, with Mor’s arm draped around her. Still sleepy, Andromache snuggles closer to Mor.

“Morning,” Mor whispers into her hair and presses a kiss on her brow.

Andromache smiles to herself, deciding that she is a very lucky woman. There may be a war raging outside, but as long as her and Mor are together, it feels like nothing will ever be able to touch them. They are safe together and Andromache is beyond glad of that. She couldn’t imagine having to wrangle with personal struggles on top of the war.

“What did you do yesterday?” Mor asks. “You slept like dead.”

Yawning, Andromache rolls over on her back. Yesterday… Oh shit.

She bolts upright. Mor next to her grunts in protest, but she is already scrambling out of bed. Through the slit of the tent, the morning sun is shining inside, casting a bright line of light on the ground. _Shit_.

She must have slept more than fifteen hours. By now, Jurian is surely back in his camp and will be worried sick about Miryam being gone. Damnit, she _promised_ Drakon that she would deal with Jurian. And she should have checked in to see how Miryam is doing hours ago.

“What’s wrong?” Mor asks. She is sitting upright in bed by now, blanket drawn up to her chin.

Andromache opens her mouth to explain, but then, she remembers that she isn’t allowed to tell Mor about the wall spell. She could probably explain that something happened to Miryam without mentioning how exactly it happened, but for all she knows, Miryam might be perfectly fine by now and if she is, she certainly wouldn’t appreciate word of what happened getting around. The last thing either of them needs is a rumour about the head of the Alliance going insane.

“I missed a meeting,” Andromache says carefully. It is technically the truth – she was indeed supposed to meet Jurian – so by all logic, Mor’s gift shouldn’t catch on to the lie. “I’m sorry, but I really need to go. I’ll tell you what it’s about when I get back.”

She waits for Mor to nod, then gives her a brief kiss and rushes out of the tent.

Andromache is briefly torn between visiting Jurian or Miryam first. If she could choose, she’d go to Miryam, but that would mean having to tell Miryam or Drakon that she _still_ hasn’t told Jurian about what happened yesterday. So Jurian first.

In his camp, she runs into the half Fae who winnowed her yesterday almost right away. He bows.

“Your Majesty, I – “

“Weren’t you supposed to send Jurian to me as soon as he woke up?” Andromache asks, only barely keeping herself from snapping at him. After all, it was her who overslept and blaming a random soldier for that would be unfair.

“Yes, Majesty, but something went wrong with the battle yesterday and the general said he was otherwise occupied. He’s in his tent.”

Andromache nods and rushes off. It seems strange that Jurian wouldn’t want to talk to her right away. Unless something went seriously wrong with the battle, that is.

“Jurian?” She calls from the tent’s entrance.

When there is no reply, she pushes it open and walks inside. Jurian is lying facedown on his bed. His armour lies scattered on the ground, but he’s still wearing a slightly bloody shirt. The air is thick with the smell of alcohol. Andromache wrinkles her nose and walks over the Jurian.

“Jurian.” She reaches out and shakes him slightly.

He grumbles something she doesn’t understand into his pillow. Andromache thinks she hears the words “go away”. She crosses her arms, wondering what Miryam would do in this situation. Probably something patient and sympathetic. But Andromache doesn’t feel like coddling Jurian after he apparently spent the evening drinking.

“If you aren’t sitting up in one minute,” she says firmly, “I’m going to ask one of your soldiers for a bucket of cold water and see if that gets you sobered up.”

Jurian remains lying in bed motionless for a few more heartbeats. Just when Andromache turns around for the door to go looking for a bucket, he groans and sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. “Where’s Miryam?”

And just like that, the whirlwind of emotions that has been cursing through Andromache since yesterday turns to roaring anger. And all of it is directed at Jurian, who spent all of yesterday chasing after his stupid vengeance and then drinking himself to oblivion when he should have been _there_ for the spell. _He_ should have been the one to hold Miryam afterwards, when she wouldn’t stop screaming, he should have been there with them, worrying.

“Where’s Miryam?” She asks, voice biting. “The question should be _where were you_. You promised to be there for the spell!”

“I needed to…” Jurian shakes his head, frowning. “Amarantha…”

“Miryam almost _died_ ,” Andromache snaps. “And the only people who were there to try and help were Drakon and me. Because you once again _weren’t there_.” She balls her hands to fists to keep from shoving him. “Did you even notice anything was wrong, or were you too busy getting drunk?”

Jurian’s frown deepens, he shakes his head. “I wasn’t…” He rubs his temples. “You’re talking too loudly.”

He’s still drunk, or at least seriously hungover. She’s yelling at a drunk man. Andromache sighs, deflating slightly. “Why did you get so drunk?”

As far as she knows, he doesn’t typically get drunk. But maybe he and Miryam just decided to keep it quiet, should it be the case.

“Because it hurts,” he tells her. “And I can’t make it stop hurting.” He rubs his eyes and Andromache realizes that he’s crying. “I got them killed. I was so sure it would work – the ambush… it was so simple, I did everything right, but they still died.” He looks up at her. “ _Why can’t I ever stop them from dying?_ ”

Just like that, Andromache’s anger evaporates. Jurian is suffering too, she realizes. He’s suffering as much as Miryam, just in a different way.

Why didn’t she ever see it before? Both Miryam and Drakon, the people who know him best, insisted for months – years, really – that he is suffering, but no one ever truly believed them. They all just saw Jurian as _difficult_ , a bit of an ass, really. Looking at him now, she doesn’t understand why anymore. His way of suffering may be uglier to deal with than Miryam’s, but he is suffering no less.

“I’ll get you some food,” Andromache says. “And a bucket with warm water to wash yourself. We have enough time to talk once you are sober.”

\----

Drakon is well aware that his plan is crazy. Stupid, dangerous and forbidden. But he spent most of last night thinking, and with the short timeframe, this was the only solution he found.

The door to the caves closes behind him with a clang, and Drakon slowly walks though the corridor. Like always, power lies heavy in the air, but for the first time, he feels like it is straining _against_ him. It’s like he’s not a welcome guest, but an intruder, a thief sneaking through a holy place. Maybe the island senses what he is trying to do. Or maybe he’s just imagining things.

“Hello?” He calls, voice echoing off the cave walls. He’s still far enough from the cave’s entrance to keep from triggering the spells guarding it, and nothing moves to answer him.

Now that he is standing here, it occurs to him that he has no idea where the ghost is when he _isn’t_ around. He came by to visit a few times, but then, he always appeared out of thin air without Drakon doing anything.

“Ghost!” That is most certainly not his name, but when Drakon asked during his last visit, the witcher refused to tell it to him and asked him to just call him Ghost. “I need to talk to you!”

“Well, I’m honoured.”

Drakon only barely manages to keep from yelping. Heart racing, he turns around to Ghost who is standing behind him. He has taken his human-looking form again, which Drakon takes as a good sign.

“You look tired,” Ghost remarks. “I’m right to assume that it’s _not_ because you spent the night reading, playing cards or doing any other pleasant things?”

As things stand, Drakon did spend most of the night reading, it just wasn’t particularly pleasant. The book was absolutely horrifying. He still can’t believe that Miryam read that and simply accepted what was written inside as her fate. Miryam, who started a war and did the impossible time and again to save her people, didn’t even _try_ to save herself.

“Unfortunately not,” he says. Pauses. “I need your help.”

Ghost gives him a smile that is probably meant to be excited, but looks uncanny. It’s abundantly clear that this isn’t an actual body, but rather an illusion, and Ghost isn’t very good at copying movements convincingly.

“So you’re going to free me?” He asks excitedly.

Drakon bites his lower lip. “You know I can’t do that.”

Ghost deflates. His entire form seems to dim. “You realize, of course, that I won’t be able to help you if I’m trapped in this cave?”

Drakon is more worried if Ghost will _want_ to help him if he remains trapped in this cave. “I have this friend,” he begins hesitantly. “Her name is Miryam.”

“How nice for you,” Ghost remarks drily.

“She’s dying,” Drakon says.

“Oh.” Ghost looks somewhat shocked. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Drakon nods and starts drumming around on his leg. “It’s her power,” he says. “She’s struggling with controlling it and we haven’t been able to find a solution. We’re running out of time, and I thought maybe you could teach her.”

“And what gave you that brilliant idea?” Ghosts’ words are sharp, as they usually are, but there is no real bite behind them.

“You’re a witcher, and a powerful one at that. Miryam is a witch, so you ought to be able to help her.”

“No.” The word cuts through the air, sharp as a blade. Ghost’s entire form seems to darken, shadows shoot over his face.

“No?” Drakon echoes.

“Exactly. And don’t even bother trying to argue – I don’t associate with witches.” With that, he vanishes into thin air.

Left alone in the corridor, Drakon stares at the spot where he was standing until a moment ago. Of all the reactions he prepared himself for, from happy agreement to demanding a steep price for his help, he never considered this outcome. He can’t believe that Ghost just _vanished_. He didn’t even try to negotiate.

“You’re damning her to death!” Drakon calls.

Only deafening silence answers. _I don’t care_ , it seems to say _, why would I care?_

“You don’t even know her! She’s a good person, kind and smart and strong. You don’t get to do this to her.”

Ghost doesn’t appear. Drakon feels the desperate urge to hurl something against one of the walls. He only resists because in his current situation, angering his goddess by throwing things around in her holy site seems unwise.

“And you have the nerve to call the Mother uncaring?” He screams, voice echoing off the walls. “You’re no better!”

 _Pop_. Ghost reappears right in front of him. This time, his eyes are black. “I don’t help witches,” he repeats, “And since you are allegedly fighting for the humans, I’m surprised you want me to.”

“Miryam _is_ human,” Drakon snaps. “Born a slave, if this is what you care so much about.”

Ghost stares at him, completely motionless. He doesn’t blink or breathe, which probably makes sense given that he’s a ghost, but is unnerving nonetheless.

“I’ll help you,” Ghost says, suddenly enough that Drakon flinches slightly. “No payment required.”

Drakon frowns at him, trying to find the trap in the words. But the only possible manipulation he can imagine is that Ghost is trying to get him to like him, which seems like a very weak reason to pass up on an excellent opportunity to demand a favour in return for his help. Did being compared to the Mother truly insult him this much?

“Thank you,” Drakon says hesitantly. “That is very kind.”

“There’s just one problem.” Ghost gives him a rueful smile. “I can’t get out of this cave, and unless you plan on marrying this Miryam, she can’t come here.”

“Fortunately for all involved, there is a third option.”

He starts walking towards the cave’s entrance. The mist rises slowly, first only one tendril, then another and another. Drakon digs his fingers into his tunic and keeps walking.

“What are you doing now?” Ghost asks. “Please tell me your plan doesn’t rely on praying to your goddess for help.”

No, that’s not his plan. For some reason of her own, the Mother hasn’t answered his prayers yet and he doubts she will do so now. So Drakon will have to take matters into his own hands. Although his plan doesn’t seem half as good anymore now that he is here.

“You’re tied to the sword, right?” He asks. “So you go where it goes?”

A moment of silence follows, then Ghost laughs. “Smart.” He laughs again. “And here I was, thinking you were a stickler for the rules. Must have been mistaken.”

Drakon blushes. “I won’t use it,” he says defensively. “I just need to take it out of this cave for a few hours.”

With that, he takes the final step towards the cave’s entrance. Mist rises thick enough to bar the view into the cave beyond, then forms a figure. Even though Drakon knew who it would be, seeing his father in front of him is still a shock.

“Again?” His father asks. “Aren’t you tired of failing at the same test again and again?”

“I need to get into the cave,” Drakon says. Why does the mist have to show him his father of all people? With anyone else, this would be much easier. “It is important. Please let me through.”

“It would have been _important_ for you to save your people.” His father laughs. “But you couldn’t do that, could you? What kind of ruler allows his people to get slaughtered while he does nothing?”

Drakon’s wings tremble behind him. He can’t do this. His father is _right_. How is he supposed to face a fear when it is the truth? He steps back, making the mist collapse in on itself, and turns around to Ghost, who has been watching in silence the entire time.

“How do I get past that?”

“Confront your fear,” Ghost says, giving one of his jerky shrugs.

“Yes, but there has to be an easier way.”

“There really isn’t. If it’s any consolation, about half your predecessors also failed at this.”

That gives Drakon a pause. “But you said I was the only one.”

Ghost looks about as ashamed as an incorporeal ghost with limited ways to show his feeling can possibly look. “I might have lied about that,” he admits. “But now that we’ve cleared that up, I should probably tell you that your opinion of your ancestors is far too high. Most of them weren’t nearly as great as you seem to think.”

Drakon doubts Ghost knew any of them well enough to judge, since he is allegedly the first one to talk to him properly. And any relief he might have felt at not being the first one to fail at the spell gets overshadowed by the knowledge that Miryam will likely die if he can’t do this.

Ghost seems to notice his despair, because he says, “You don’t have to _overcome_ your fears. The spell simply requires you to _confront_ them.”

Drakon tugs his wings in closer to his body and leans against the wall. “I _am_ confronting my fears, though,” he says. “My country is under attack, my people are being slaughtered – it’s nearly impossible for me _not_ to confront that I’m too incompetent to save them.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have too little confidence in yourself?” Ghost asks. “You told me you managed to implement some major changes in your country’s political system successfully while simultaneously fighting a war. That hardly sounds incompetent to me.”

“The people who got slaughtered because of my failures might disagree.” As well as every other Continental leader. The list of people who would say that Drakon is suited to his position is rather short.

“No war without casualties,” Ghost says, “It’s horrible, but in my experience, wars have a habit of producing corpses. Are you going to blame yourself for each and every death that happens?” When Drakon doesn’t reply, he adds, “If you ask me, your problem is that you don’t confront your fears, you simply accept them. You may be scared of not being good enough or failing, but you are also _convinced_ that those fears are true. That’s what you need to deal with if you want to get into that cave.”

Drakon drums a quick rhythm on his leg. “But it _is_ true,” he says. “I can’t do anything about that.”

“In that case, you ought to say goodbye to your friend.”

Drakon freezes. Miryam… If he doesn’t manage to get into that cave, it’s over for her. They could try to find another solution, but within less than a month, that is nearly impossible. He needs to get past the spell, or she will die, and he promised that he wouldn’t allow that to happen.

Slowly, he steps forward. His father reappears in front of him, frowning.

“You could at least have the decency to leave,” he says. “I don’t want to have to look at you.”

 _This is unfair_ , Drakon thinks somewhat irrationally, _Why can’t my biggest fear be something like huge spiders? Spiders I could deal with._

“You always were a disappointment,” his father says, “From your childhood onwards. Had I known you would ever end up in charge of Erithia, I would have disinherited you years before you ever came of age.”

“Believe me, this is no less unfortunate for me than it is for you,” Drakon says, but there are tears burning in his eyes. He blinks them away. He is supposed to confront his fears, damnit. Right now, he is doing anything but.

The problem is that he can’t confidently say that his father is wrong. Ghost may talk about how he lacks self-confidence, Sinna, Nephelle and Miryam may tell him that he’s doing a good job of ruling his country, but the way he sees it, the facts speak against them. If he _was_ competent, he would have found a way to stop Ravenia. Or he could at least get past this stupid spell and save Miryam.

But he doesn’t need to overcome his fears, Ghost said. He just has to confront them.

“I’m terrified,” he admits. “I’m terrified of failing, of my people suffering simply because I am not good enough.”

“They are suffering already because of that.”

“I know,” Drakon says, “And I know that they would have deserved a better ruler, someone who was actually prepared for the position.” He shakes his head. “But I am _trying_. I’m trying to live up to it, to be the leader they deserve. And I will keep trying and eventually, I will succeed.”

His father stares at him for a moment. Then, ever so slowly, he inclines his head. And the mist crumbles, leaving the entrance to the cave free. Drakon looks at the empty spot, not quite believing his own eyes.

“I knew you could do it,” Ghost says from behind him.

Hesitantly, Drakon steps forward. He’s almost expecting for something to hold him back, but there is no resistance as he steps through the doorway and into the cave.

He bows deeply to the sword. Now that he is standing in the cave with the sword, its power thick in the air, he finally begins to truly realizes what he is planning to do. He steps closer, almost expecting the sword to sense what he is planning and attack him, but it simply remains lying on its stand. Slowly, he reaches out for it. He won’t do anything forbidden, not really. There’s no rule that explicitly forbids him from taking the sword away from Cretea. He just isn’t allowed to use it. Or let anyone else use it, for that matter.

“Go ahead,” Ghost says, “A little rebelliousness is always good. Although I suppose most people don’t start out by breaking millennia old traditions.”

Drakon flinches back from the sword. He really shouldn’t be doing this. It’s dangerous and forbidden, possibly even blasphemy. But if he doesn’t, then Miryam will die. He reaches for the sword again, then hesitates. With the power it radiates and the black jewel glinting in its hilt, it isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

“Could you, uhm.” How does one talk to a sword exactly? “I’m really sorry, but could you try to look more like a normal sword, please?”

The sword remains lying there, looking exactly the way it always does.

“It’s a sword,” Ghost remarks drily. “You realize that it doesn’t talk, right?”

“A _magic_ sword,” Drakon says defensively. Apparently, Ghost is done being understanding for the moment. Drakon just hopes he’ll be kind to Miryam.

Ghost laughs. He seems to be in high spirits today, maybe at the prospect of getting out of the cave. In a heartbeat, he reappears next to the sword and whispers something to it in a language Drakon doesn’t understand. The sword shimmers softly, then changes shapes until it’s an exact replica of Drakon’s own blade lying in front of him.

“What – “ Drakon begins.

Ghost turns around to him. “It’s a magic sword, didn’t you know?” He grins. “Just not _your_ magic sword.”

 _It isn’t yours either_ , Drakon thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He’s already gotten lucky with Ghost agreeing and doesn’t want to push it by starting a pointless argument. Slowly, carefully, he steps towards the sword and reaches out. Power zaps his fingers as he touches it, making his fingers tingle, then go numb. But he is holding the sword, and so far, it hasn’t killed him.

Carefully, he removes his own sword from its sheath and instead puts the Sword of Daín inside. That alone feels like blasphemy, but Drakon can’t get himself to truly feel bad about it. Not when it might save Miryam’s life.

\----

After Drakon is gone, one of the Seraphim healers enters the tent to talk to Miryam about her situation. He mostly just confirms things she already knew, all the while maintaining a cool professionalism that is both reassuring and a little unsettling. Miryam listens in silence, then thanks the Seraphim for his help and politely refuses the pain tonic he offers her. She knows those medicines well enough – it will help the pain, but it will also make her drowsy. With her days now numbered, Miryam would rather not waste them.

After that, the healer leaves and Nephelle enters her tent. For the following minutes, they both try very hard to keep a conversation about Nephelle’s work as a cartographer going, but the news that Miryam is going to die hand heavy in the air and seem to choke the life out of any attempt at conversation. Fascinating as Miryam usually finds Nephelle’s work, today, she just can’t focus on what she is telling her. Her head hurts and she keeps flinching at shadows, scared out of her mind that the hallucinations will start again.

For want of better things to do, they end up playing cards. With the help of a few cushions at her back, Miryam manages to get into a sitting position and Nephelle sits down on her bed. The game is rather easy, but Miryam still ends up losing every time. She is simply too tired, too upset and distracted to focus on the game. Mercifully, Nephelle doesn’t comment and simply accepts victory after victory.

Ever so slowly, the pain begins to fade. After an hour, Miryam manages to eat a few spoons of soup and drink some water, and she can sit up on her own. Now that she feels a bit better, the idea that she will die in a month or less seems completely absurd.

Rationally, she knows that her oncoming death is very real. She even knows exactly how it will go. What happened yesterday won’t remain a singular occurrence. The hallucinations will get worst and her power will slip her grip more often until it eventually kills her. She just can’t imagine it. Through all those years and against all odds, she survived. She spent three years as a personal slave to Ravenia and escaped, fought over five years in the bloodiest war of the millennia. And now it’s supposed to be her own power that kills her?

Nephelle wins for the sixth time in a row and Miryam lays down her cards with a sigh. “I’m terrible at this.”

“It’s kind of unfair, really. I’ve been playing this game for two hundred years,” Nephelle says.

Miryam smiles tiredly. She likes Nephelle. “Thanks for sticking around. I know I’m terrible company right now.”

“Sure.” Nephelle’s wings rustle as she changes positions. “Maybe we could –“

A knock sounds at the door. Miryam looks up, expecting Drakon, but instead, it is Nakia who enters. The Queen of Scythia holds herself perfectly straight and remains standing in the entry as she surveys the room.

“Majesty,” Miryam says and inclines her head. Nephelle jumps to her feet and bows.

Nakia’s eyes move to Nephelle. “I’d talk to Lady Miryam,” she says, “Would you be so kind to give us some privacy.”

Nephelle looks over to Miryam, clearly waiting for her to say something. Miryam nods and Nephelle walks out of the tent, leaving her alone with Nakia.

“Please, sit,” Miryam says in an attempt to cover up the awkwardness between them.

“I’d rather remain standing,” Nakia replies brusquely. “Are you feeling better?”

“Somewhat,” Miryam replies.

She pulls her blanket higher and shifts to sit a bit straighter. Why is Nakia here? Miryam would have expected Andromache to come visit, maybe Mor, and she had hoped for Jurian. Not Nakia – certainly not after what she said yesterday. Miryam hasn’t yet gotten the chance to reflect on what Nakia said to her yesterday, but even so, the words kept stinging long after they had been spoken. Seeing Nakia now just makes it worse, and Miryam wishes she would leave.

“But you will be alright?” Nakia asks.

“Unlikely.” Miryam doesn’t have enough energy left to come up with a convincing lie, so she just doesn’t. Where would the point be, anyways? If what the healers told her is true, she won’t be able to keep what’s happening secret for more than a few weeks, either way. “I’d appreciate your discretion, though,” she adds when Nakia doesn’t say anything.

“Of course.” Nakia gives a curt not. “I’ll have word get around that you caught a bad cold.”

“Thank you,” Miryam says and then, they fall silent again.

Nakia remains standing in the entrance, staring at Miryam. It is, quite frankly, uncomfortable but Nakia is human royalty and that means Miryam has to let her proceed.

“I would like to apologize,” Nakia says abruptly. “I should not have spoken to you the way I did yesterday.”

 _What_? For a moment, all Miryam can do is to stare. She is nearly certain she misheard. There is no way Nakia is seriously apologizing to her.

“I got the feeling you meant every word,” she manages. It’s not the expected reaction – by protocols, she should either accept the apology or demand some sort of compensation – but it’s all Miryam can manage.

“I did,” Nakia says, “But I am a queen and almost fifty years older than you are, and we are allies. Propriety alone should have been enough to keep me from speaking to you that way.” She presses her lips into a thin line. “I wanted to get you to act, but I could have gone about it differently. You were already on the ground and I saw it, but I still went for a personal attack. That was cruel, and it was unworthy and for that, I apologize.”

Miryam nods slowly. Usually, when people apologize to her, she brushes it off, but she doubts that Nakia would appreciate a simple _It’s no problem_.

“I’m sorry as well,” she says instead, “For what it’s worth, I truly never meant to disrespect your decision, or put anyone in danger.”

Nakia clasps her hands behind her back. “You would do it again, though. If you had to.”

“Yes.” It might be horribly and selfish, but Miryam knows that she could never accept peace as long as a single human was still enslaved. Had she truly realized the risks, it would have made her hesitate, but she doubts it could have stopped her.

“Andromache is the same,” Nakia says in a neutral tone. “Perhaps this type of recklessness is the privilege of the youth. But I have fought too many battles to risk everything we have gained these past centuries so casually.”

Miryam nods. “I guess we at least know where we both stand now.”

Nakia gives her a curt nod. “Then perhaps it is time we put this idiotic quarrel aside and start acting like allies again. After all, we’re both human.”

Miryam smiles softly. It’s not only a peace offer, but also the first time Nakia acknowledged her as human.

“I’d like that,” she says, but then, she remembers that she is probably not going to live long enough to truly get the chance to work together.

“Good,” Nakia says. Miryam doesn’t find out if she wanted to elaborate further, because the tent’s entrance flaps open before she gets the chance to say anything.

“Your Majesty.” Drakon bows a tad lower than necessary. “My apologies. I didn’t know you were here.”

“Highness.” Nakia returns the bow, far less low than the one Drakon offers.

Miryam doesn’t listen to the rest of the conversation. Her attention is entirely on the sword at Drakon’s side. It looks the same as always, but the power radiating off it is nearly enough to take Miryam’s breath away. Around it, the strings shiver and move away, as if to hide from the blade.

Whatever this sword is, it’s powerful. More powerful than anything Miryam has ever seen. What in the Mother’s name is Drakon doing with that thing?

“I’ll take my leave, then,” Nakia says. She turns to Miryam. “There are healers in Telique, too, should you wish to accompany me.”

“Thank you, but I’m quite comfortable here,” Miryam says, although the effect is undercut by the stabbing pain that shoots through her at the same time. She winces slightly, but at least, Nakia seems reassured that she if here of her own free will. With a curt goodbye to both of them, she stalks out of the tent.

Miryam waits until the door to the tent is closed and Drakon has set up wards around it before turning around to him. “What is that?”

The strings are still moving around like a swarm of frightened birds and by now, their constant movement is making Miryam dizzy. Power prickles on her skin.Everything is moving too quickly and she isn’t entirely sure what is real and what isn’t anymore. Her breathing quickens and she digs her nails into the blanket, trying to reassure herself that this is real.

“That’s her?” A voice asks from next to Miryam. She yelps and turns around, nearly falling out of bed as she does.

A man is standing next to her bed. He’s round faced, with skin the same shade as hers and curly black hair. The strings move strangely around him as well, but where they seem to flee from the sword, they move closer to this man, curl around him and run over his arms. Miryam is so mesmerized by this that it takes her far too long to realize that he just appeared out of thin air.

He isn’t actually here. She must be imagining him. Another hallucination, then. Her chest feels impossibly tight. Why this quickly? She thought she’d have longer, in the book, they said that it would be a longer time span between hallucinations in the beginning.

“That’s…” Drakon shakes his head. “Another new form? Seriously?”

The strange man just shrugs and Miryam realizes with a start that Drakon sees him as well. She isn’t imagining this.

“What the fuck?” Miryam gets enough of a grip on herself that she manages to say something, although it’s not the most intelligent comment she ever made.

“That’s the friend I mentioned.” Drakon winces, hand hovering over the hilt of the strange sword. “You can call him Ghost, because, well…”

“Because that’s what I am,” Ghost finishes. “And you shouldn’t ask him about the circumstances, because he isn’t allowed to tell you.” He grins over at Drakon. “Unless you’re making a habit of breaking millennia-old rules these days.”

Miryam looks over at Drakon, who sighs. “I really can’t tell you.”

“But _I_ can,” Ghost says. “And I will, since I’m not really interested in keeping secrets for you and your stupid goddess.”

Miryam looks between them, frowning. They might as well be talking in a completely different language. With a start, she realizes that this is probably how Drakon feels with Continental politics. Small wonder he hates it this much.

Even though she’s dying to know what is going on, she shakes her head. “If you really can’t tell me, you don’t need to.”

Drakon lets himself drop onto the bed next to Miryam and rubs his temples. “Thank you,” he says, “And if I may ask another favour; could you swear to me that you won’t ever tell anyone about this?”

Another _favour_? Doesn’t he realize that it is him who’s doing her a favour, and clearly a big one if she’s judging his behaviour correctly. Should this work, he might end up saving her life.

“Of course.” She sits up straighter in bed and tries to lean over to Drakon. The movement makes her head spin and he takes her by the arm to keep her from swaying.

“Everything alright?” He asks, concern colouring his voice.

“Yes. Could you move over, I’m trying to hug you.”

“Oh. Sure.” Drakon carefully leans over to her and allows her to wrap her arms around him.

“Thank you,” she whispers, “I may not understand what, exactly, you did, but it means a lot.”

“You thought I’d just let you die?” Drakon asks. He’s trying to sound light, but his voice is thick with emotion.

Miryam presses her face into his shoulder and holds him close, feeling safer than she has in a long time. Even her power seems to calm down. She wishes she could stay here, like this, forever. Forget all about the war, the Alliance and her responsibility.

“Awww,” Ghost says, “You’re cute. Are you together?”

“No!” Drakon pulls back, much to Miryam’s disappointment. He doesn’t meet her eyes either as he adds, “We’re friends.”

Miryam nods, thinking of Jurian, who still hasn’t turned up. She desperately wants to believe that there is a reason for his absence, something big that’s keeping him from coming to her, but she isn’t so sure about that. Maybe he’s already working on a new strategy against Amarantha that he deems more important. And of course, fighting the war is more important, but right now, she still wants nothing more than to have Jurian here with her.

“Alright.” Ghost nods to Drakon. “Then you can go back to whatever it is you ought to be doing. We’ll be fine here.”

Drakon frowns. “I think I’d rather stay.” He turns to Miryam. “If you want me to, that is.”

Miryam does want him to stay. Badly. Ghost seems kind enough, but staying alone with him and that sword – and the strings that move around both of them so very strangely – is enough to make her nervous, especially with her power still not working. Besides, being with Drakon makes her feel better, calmer somehow.

Instead of an answer, she reaches for Drakon’s hand and intertwines her fingers with his.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ghost says. He disappears and reappears in a sitting position on the bed next to Miryam. “Then how about you start by explaining to me what exactly your problem is, and we’ll see how we proceed from here.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a moment to thank anyone who's leaving comments and kudos on this fic! I have been getting more comments lately and it always makes my day to hear what people think of my writing. Thank you all so much!

## Chapter 39

“Stop running like this,” Andromache says, even though she easily keeps pace with him.

Jurian doesn’t slow down. He can’t believe Andromache took the time to have a calm breakfast with him while Miryam might be _dying_. He needs to see her immediately, needs to know that she will be alright. Guilt and worry twist his guts and he already regrets eating anything for breakfast.

He storms up to the main entrance of Drakon’s camp, only stopping when the guards don’t move to allow him through.

“Where is she?” Jurian asks.

The guards exchange glances. “General – “ One of them begins, but Jurian cuts him off.

“I want to see Miryam. Now.”

The guards exchange another glance, and Andromache puts a hand on his arm, shaking her head. The look she gives him clearly says _stop_ , but Jurian ignores her. He hates that Miryam is here, in this camp, and not with him. Hates that it was Drakon who was there to help her when she needed it. It should have been him. Why wasn’t he _there_? Did he truly think Amarantha was more important?

To make it worse, the ambush wasn’t even a success. Quite the contrary. He lost all these soldiers, and then, he nearly lost Miryam. And he spent the night drinking himself into oblivion instead of checking up on Miryam. He didn’t even consider that something might have happened.

“Come along, please,” one of the soldiers tells him and starts walking back into the camp.

Andromache links her arm with Jurian’s as they follow him and leans in to whisper, “Stop being rude to the soldiers. They aren’t to blame for what happened.”

Jurian scowls, but he can’t disagree. It’s hardly the soldiers’ fault that he has quarrel with their Prince, and being rude to people whose rank is so much lower than his that they can’t even be rude back is low. He silently promises himself to stop it.

The soldier who is leading them stops in front of a tent towards the centre of the camp. It isn’t the biggest one around, but still finely made and clearly meant for an important person. Guards are posted at the entrance.

“We need to announce you,” one of them says, but Jurian doesn’t have any patience for that.

He needs to go in there now, or he will lose courage. But when he steps forward, the guards lower their spears. Jurian blinks at them. They are truly pointing their weapons at him.

“I’m sorry, General, Majesty.” The soldier looks nervously between them. “We have strict orders not to let anyone enter.”

Jurian wants to ignore the order and push past them – see if they dare to hold him back – but Andromache grips his arm. A moment later, Jurian gets a grip on himself. He can’t start a fight, of course not. What was he thinking?

So he patiently waits for one of the soldiers to announce them to the people inside the camp. It takes only just over a minute, then the soldiers step aside and the door opens. Jurian stands frozen in place. Now that he _can_ go inside, he is suddenly afraid. What if Miryam hasn’t recovered? What if she’s still in the state Andromache described to him, or, worse, dying? Will she blame him for not having been there for her?

Andromache gives him a shove that makes him stumble towards the door. He catches himself, straightens and walks into the tent.

His eyes go straight to Miryam. She is lying in bed, blanket drawn up to her chest, head plopped up by two pillows. She looks tiny in the too-big bed, and tiny and scarily fragile. _She looks like she’s dying_ , Jurian thinks, then quickly brushes the thought away, but it is true. He’s seen her tired and sick and unwell, but not once has she looked this drained.

Jurian opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. He can only stare at her.

Andromache pushes past him and sits down on the edge of Miryam’s bed. Only then does Jurian notice Drakon, who is sitting on the sole chair in the tent, fiddling around with his sword. Drakon nods at him and Jurian quickly looks away, returning his attention to Miryam and Andromache.

“You look terrible,” Andromache says, “But you are, you know, _here_?”

Miryam nods. “There have been no further problems since I woke up.”

She looks over to Jurian. He should say something. _Now_.

Drakon clears his throat and gets up. “Let’s go outside for a moment,” he says to Andromache. He’s playing around with his sword again as he leads Andromache out of the tent, leaving Jurian alone with Miryam.

He remains standing by the entrance, awkwardly stepping from one foot to the other. Miryam pushes herself into a sitting position and draws her knees up to her chest, still watching him in silence. Clearly, she expects him to say something. Damnit, he _needs_ to say something. But what? His mind is completely blank, he can’t come up with a single thing to say.

“Don’t you want to sit down?” Miryam finally asks, breaking the silence.

Jurian nods and stiffly sits down on the chair Drakon occupied until a moment ago. He feels like he somehow failed by waiting for Miryam to take the first step. But now, he has to say something, before things get any worse.

“How are you?” He asks. The question is so inadequate that he has to wince.

Miryam shrugs. “I’ve got a headache. And I can’t get up. But I think it’s getting a bit better already.”

“That’s good news,” Jurian says, but can’t help the doubt creeping through him.

Andromache told him what happened, offering details that made Jurian’s stomach churn and he knows that Miryam is likely downplaying it now to make him feel better. He hates that she almost died and still tries to protect him from it. And he hates that he wasn’t there when it happened.

“I should have been there,” he says. Shame shoots through him like a burning knife. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Miryam says, “It’s not like you could have changed anything.”

She’s so distant. Jurian knows that he messed up, knows that it’s on him to do something to fix this, but words escape him. He is caught between shame and sheer terror at the thought that he almost lost her, unable to find the words to make everything better. Maybe he can let actions speak? He walks over to Miryam and carefully wraps his arms around her.

He doesn’t know what he was hoping for in the hug. Maybe comfort, or some long-lost sense of mutual understanding. But whatever it was, he doesn’t find it. Miryam feels so fragile in his arms that he doesn’t even dare hold her too tightly and when they let go of each other, Jurian feels like he only succeeded in making things more awkward. Miryam looks down at her hands, avoiding his gaze.

Jurian so badly wants to be able to offer her words of comfort, but all that comes out is, “I don’t know what’s happening to us.”

They are drifting further and further apart and it has never been more apparent then now. Miryam almost died and he is just standing here, unable to even say anything to comfort her.

Miryam takes his hands as if she, too, senses the rift between them and is somehow trying to bridge it. Wordlessly, she squeezes his hands. Jurian squeezes back, hoping that she will find reassuring words for him, only to realize that he is the one who should do the reassuring.

“But we’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m _this_ close to defeating Amarantha and then, I can get rid of Clythia, too. This Is almost over. And once they are dead, everything will go back to normal, you’ll see. We will be fine.”

Miryam turns her head away. “Of course,” she says.

She doesn’t sound happy, but she will see. Once Amarantha and Clythia are dead, the tide will turn. Everything will be well again. He just knows it.

“Then let’s go back to our camp,” he says. He doesn’t like staying in Drakon’s camp. Why did they even bring Miryam here in the first place? She should have stayed. Then he would have heard about what happened sooner, too, and would never have gotten drunk.

But Miryam shakes her head. “I need to stay here for a bit longer,” she says. “The healers are trying out a treatment.”

Jurian makes a face. “We have healers, too,” he says and thinks of Clythia saying that Drakon will get Miryam killed. He badly wants to tell her about his concerns, but the last time he mentioned the prophecy to Miryam, that didn’t go over well, so he keeps silent.

“They aren’t trained in dealing with magical illnesses,” Miryam explains and Jurian nods, because that’s all he can really do.

After that, conversation comes to a halt. Jurian allows the silence between them to stretch on until it becomes far too awkward. For want of other ideas, he starts telling Miryam about the ambush, how Amarantha seems to have anticipated it and how he lost well over a hundred soldiers.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Miryam says. “From how it sounds, you couldn’t have done anything and I don’t see how you could have seen it coming either.”

It doesn’t entirely ease the guilt, but at least Jurian feels a little better.

They sit around in silence again for a while, until Miryam says, “We probably should tell the others that they can come back in.”

Jurian jumps to his feet. “I’ll tell Andromache she can come inside,” he says. “And maybe I should wait outside while you talk? To give you some privacy.”

It’s a coward’s suggestion. The truth is that he can’t look at Miryam without feeling a stab of guilt. He should have been there. Somehow, he should have prevented what happened. He thinks Miryam notices, can almost feel her disappointment, but she doesn’t stop him as he rushes out of the tent.

Jurian steps out of the tent, only to nearly run into Drakon, who is sitting on an upturned barrel outside. Jurian suppresses a groan. The last thing he wants right now is to talk to the Prince.

“You want to go inside now?” He asks Andromache, who nods and walks into the tent. Jurian remains standing, arms crossed and pointedly _not_ looking at Drakon.

Unfortunately, Drakon ignores Jurian’s obvious signals. “How are you?” He asks.

“Not interested in talking to you,” Jurian replies and hopes that this will be enough to put an end to this conversation before it can truly begin.

Drakon is fingering around with his weapons belt again. He touches the sword, then quickly withdraws his hand and looks up again.

“Aren’t we even able to have a civil conversation, now?” He asks. “We were best friends once.”

Jurian has a sharp reply on the tip of his tongue – _And whose fault is it that we aren’t friends anymore?_ , comes to mind – but he forces himself to remain silent. Miryam hates when he is mean to Drakon.

“Just leave me alone,” Jurian says. _And stay away from Miryam, while you are at it._ He turns away, not particularly caring that Drakon looks hurt.

\----

Andromache sits down on the bed next to Miryam. “How are you?” She asks.

Miryam shrugs. “Better than yesterday,” she says with a wry smile. It’s too early to tell if Ghost will be able to help her. They’ve only been talking for half an hour when Jurian arrived, forcing Ghost to go back into the sword (if that is where he goes when he isn’t visible). “Thanks for looking after me when… you know.” Her memories of what happened aren’t exactly clear, but from what she remembers, trying to help her can’t have been pleasant.

“Just get better again,” Andromache says, “That would be thanks enough.”

How Miryam would like to be able to fulfil that request. She just isn’t sure if it will be possible. She’s so tired.

“I’m not sure if Jurian told you,” Andromache says, “but there was some kind of trouble during his ambush. He only heard about what had happened this morning, so that’s why he wasn’t here earlier.”

Miryam nods. She doesn’t know how else to react, how to put her feelings into words. She doesn’t know why she is so disappointed, or what it is she expected from Jurian. Rationally, she knows that him being there during the spell and afterwards would not have changed anything. Just like she knows that it is out of his power to fix her problems for her. She can’t even expect him to _understand_ , not when he never experienced anything similar and she isn’t capable of explaining it to him.

All this, she knows. And still, the disappointment is crushing.

Because stupidly, irrationally, she had hoped that Jurian would be able to ease her pain, soothe her fears. She had wanted to have him there with her and she wanted that alone to be enough to make everything more bearable. But it didn’t. When he told her it would be okay, she didn’t believe a word, and when they hugged, it didn’t make her feel save. It was just awkward. The entire time, she was waiting for him to say or do something that would comfort her, but he never did, and in the end, _she_ had to be the one to comfort him.

“Is there anything left at all between the two of you?” Andromache asks softly.

Miryam squeezes her eyes shut to keep the tears at bay and takes a deep breath. How she wishes there was nothing left. Then it might be easier. But there is so much still between them. Over six years together, countless obstacles they faced and overcame, all the times they saved each other. Countless shared moments, whispered reassurances and quiet hours. A common cause, a mutual understanding. So much love and anger and disappointment that Miryam sometimes feels like she might choke on it.

Andromache puts an arm around her shoulders and now, Miryam does cry. She cries for Jurian, and for herself – for the children they were when they first met, and the people war and suffering and loss has made them into. When did the gap between them become so wide, so impossible to overcome?

She bites her lower lip so hard she almost draws blood and forces the tears to stop. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers. “It’s simply too much, I can’t…” She shakes her head. “I just can’t.”

“You know you’re always welcome in Telique,” Andromache says.

Miryam knows she should thank her, but thinking of Telique just makes the tears return. The Alliance. Another thing she can’t do.

Andromache seems to sense her thoughts, because she says, “No one could blame you if you said you want out, you know? You’ve done more than anyone could possibly have demanded already for this war. You could always step down as head of the Alliance.”

The idea is appealing, so very, very appealing. Let someone else lead, hand the weight over. She never wanted this, anyways. But Miryam shakes her head.

“And who would replace me?”

“If you truly can’t do this anymore, we’d find someone,” Andromache says, but she sounds doubtful.

Miryam simply shakes her head. The Fae, eternally arrogant and valuing their rules above all else, would never follow a human. Nor would any of them be willing to give the honour of leading the Alliance to another Fae – not that the humans would ever accept a Fae leading a war that is about _their_ freedom. Not to mention that Miryam can count the amount of Fae nobles who genuinely care about human freedom on one hand.

“There’s no one else,” she says. “It has to be me.” So she better find a way to stay alive.

The following days pass in a haze. Miryam remains in Drakon’s camp, slowly recovering from the wall spell. Jurian visits twice and Drakon comes by as often as his duties as Prince will allow, but most of the time, Miryam sits with Ghost in her tent, trying to get a grip on her powers.

The first day is mostly useless. Ghost makes Miryam describe every little detail of her powers, but when he asks her to call it, it won’t come and so he spends most of the time trying to explain magical concepts to her. But she is too tired, still too much in pain, to truly understand what he is saying, and more then once, she simply lacks the basic knowledge necessary to follow his explanations.

“Are you partially human as well?” Miryam asks at one point. He certainly looks more human than Fae, even more human than Miryam does.

But Ghost shakes his head. “I can choose my form at will.”

Ignoring the stab of disappointment, Miryam asks, “Then why would you choose a human form?”

“I generally prefer humans to Fae.”

The sentiment is unusual enough that Miryam wants to keep asking, but Ghost returns to his explanations without giving her the chance.

The second day goes better. The pain has mostly receded by then, and when Miryam tries to summon her power, it answers her. From there, the real work begins. Ghost makes her complete tasks, smaller ones at first, but they quickly get harder. Miryam doesn’t understand the purpose, but Ghost seems to draw conclusions from what she is doing. Even though he is rarely satisfied.

“Don’t pull on it that hard,” he tells her, annoyed. “By all the worlds, please stop trying to force the strings like this. It’s painful to watch.”

“How else am I to get them to move?”

“Gently. With _feeling_.” Ghost snorts. “You have an inherent connection to the world – the universe, even. And you bash your power against the Strings like you’re trying to hammer them into position. You aren’t a smith hammering around on a slab of metal, you are working with the fabric of this world.”

The talk of a connection to the universe sounds a bit too much like what she read in her first spellbook for her liking. The witches are oh so special, gifted by the Mother, the only ones with a connection to the universe. Which, in their mind, gives them the right to do anything they want. It doesn’t exactly make Miryam inclined to put much faith in the approach.

She sighs and tries again. Midway through the spell, Ghost appears right in front of her, startling her into letting go of her power.

“Stop it,” he snaps. “You don’t even use your power correctly. From the way you act, you’d think it was some wild beast that you need to beat into submission if you don’t want it to swallow you whole.”

Miryam doesn’t have a reply to that. Her power _is_ wild and scary and dangerous, she’s never known it as anything else. But Ghost wants her to see it as a friend. He wants her to let it flow freely, to gently move the strings into position instead of forcing them. He talks of connections, of rules she never heard of.

He sees her power as something beautiful. She only ever sees it as terrible. When she calls it and is standing next to Ravenia’s throne again, watching Artax draw that circle around the human Sacrifices. She sees him smirking at her terror. And that makes it extremely difficult to see the power as a _friend_.

But Ghost is persistent. He starts small, explaining again and again how he wants her to use her powers, correcting her technique with a surprising patience. On the third day, the shadows return. Miryam spends two hours curled up under her blanket, pillow over her head, waiting for them to disappear. When she returns from under the blanket, Ghost simply tells her that she probably ought to start using a certain amount of power daily to keep it from building up. Then, he goes back to his explanations.

On the fifth day, he decides to have Miryam let her power flow through her freely. He explains she is supposed to feel a connection to it, learn to let go.

Miryam fails catastrophically. She can’t seem to go three seconds without clamping down on her power. No matter how much Ghost assures her that she will be fine, no matter how often he tells her that she really should be able to do this, as soon as she feels that her power is unchecked, she shuts down.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Ghost says softly, more to himself than to Miryam.

She frowns at him. “Well, if that isn’t reassuring…” The truth is, she is tired. Tired of this task, tired of being told to _be nicer_ to the power that is currently killing her. She had hoped he would tell her a few simple tricks and everything would be fine.

Ghost turns around to her. “You should be able to do this. Easily. So far, you’ve managed to do what’s the equivalent of draining a lake with your bare hands. I give you a bucket, and you’re suddenly overwhelmed?”

Miryam frowns down at her hands. “I’m tired,” she says, “Maybe tomorrow – “

“Your problem isn’t that you’re tired, it’s that you are scared,” Ghost cuts her off. “Which in itself is hardly extraordinary for you mortals. You get scared of your own power, it senses that fear and tries to protect you, which only scares you more, so you lose control. But you – “ He glares at Miryam. “You are far too advanced for that. You should _know_ by now that your power won’t harm you if you follow a basic set of rules.”

Her power does harm her, though. It hurts her and drives her insane and at one point, it will kill her. But somehow, she knows that this isn’t the root of her problems, not really. She isn’t so scared of her power hurting her that she accidentally causes it to do just that, it hurts her because she can’t control it.

“Maybe it’s because I’m half human,” she says. “Maybe I’m just not made for that kind of power.”

“An interesting thought.” Ghost watches her with an intensity that makes her fidget. It’s like he’s trying to see straight through her. “I do believe that your being human influences your abilities in some ways – both positive and negative – but I doubt it is the reason for your current problems.”

Miryam shakes her head and draws her knees up to her chest. She should probably be relieved. If the problem was her being human, that would have been as good as a death sentence since she can’t very well change species.

“Did you know that emotion has a tendency to influence power?” Ghost asks. “Especially fear, anger and other negative emotions. You wouldn’t have any of those, would you? Particularly in relation to your powers.”

Miryam stares at him. She can’t believe that an allegedly millennia-old ghost is trying to talk to her about her _feelings_. “I’m not having trouble with my emotions,” she says, “I’m perfectly in control of those. It’s my power that’s being a problem.”

Ghost reappears sitting on her bed. (Or rather pretending to be sitting, since he doesn’t actually have a body.) “Tell me about your childhood,” he says.

Miryam freezes. “Why are you asking about that?” Her voice sounds flat in her own ears.

“You were born a slave. You hate witches. And somehow, you have trouble with your power.” He cocks his head to the side. “The math isn’t exactly hard to do. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

Her power whispers to life, making the strings move around even more quickly. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself and imagines the power dying down, whirlwind turning to soft breeze, but it won’t help. She thinks she sees a shadow moving at the edge of her vision.

“Thank you,” Ghost says sarcastically, “For proving me right.”

Miryam jumps to her feet. Her head begins to spin at the sudden movement and she has to grab the edge of the bed for support. She needs to get out of here, away from this conversation and the memories it stirs.

“I need some fresh air,” she says. “You’ll excuse me.”

“You’re still proving me right!” Ghost calls after her as she stalks out of the tent.

And damn him, maybe she is. But she can’t get herself to stop walking, to turn around and talk to him. She can’t face this. She _can’t_. She locked that part of herself away, and if she opens that door, allows the memories out… It’s simply too much. Too much for her to ever deal with. If this is what it takes to control her power, then she might as well start arranging her own funeral.

She wanders through the camp aimlessly, watching the soldiers go about their work. Two of them are sparring in the ring, and a huge group of spectators has formed around them. Miryam lingers for a moment to watch, then continues on. Two younger boys, probably working in the kitchen, run past her, laughing breathlessly. Miryam feels strangely detached from the scene, like she is watching from far away.

Eventually, she reaches the edge of the camp. The guards stare at her and whisper among themselves, but they don’t stop her as she walks past them. She doesn’t go far, just far enough to get out of sight from the camp. Then, she sits down on a tree stump and stares down into the grass. A sparrow lands on her knee. Smiling softly, she holds out a hand and allows it to hop on.

“Want to trade places?” She asks. The sparrow cocks its head to the side, watching her out of dark eyes. She shakes her head. “No, why would you. Your life is probably better than mine.” She gently runs a finger over its head. “You can fly around freely. No wars, no slavery or magical powers to worry about.”

The bird rocks its head as if to say that it agrees. Although it is likely that she is reading too much into the motion.

Leaves crunch behind her. Miryam doesn’t have to look up to know who it is. On her hand, the sparrow rustles its feathers and makes a small, chirping sound. Without a word, Drakon sits down in the grass facing her.

Miryam sighs. “Go,” she whispers to the sparrow. It spreads its wings and takes off. Miryam looks after it as it flies away.

“When I was a child,” she says softly, thinking that she can’t quite remember when she last considered herself a child, “I sometimes dreamt I would grow wings and fly away.” She shakes her head. “I thought if only I flew high enough, I could leave it all behind below me. I wanted to fly higher than anyone before me, right up to the sun, where no one has ever heard of the Black Land. I thought that would be true freedom.”

She stares down at her hands. Her sleeves cover the scars at her wrists and the brand on her left forearm, but she can imagine them there, forever marking her as _property_.

“I fled through the entire Continent,” she says, “Ran and ran, but still, I could never get away.” She traces the outline of the brand with her finger. “I only ever wanted to be free,” she says, “But I can’t manage to leave it behind. I’m still _there_ , every day, every second. I tried to lock that part of myself away, but…” She rubs her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I do, or how far I run. I can’t ever escape, not truly.”

She is eternally caught in the same moments, unable to escape. And the girl she once was, the girl who survived Ravenia’s court for three years, might have been able to deal with it. She might have endured the endless cruelties and seen her scars as lessons learned. But the woman Miryam has grown into, the woman she _chose to be_ , cannot. Because Miryam – the person she made herself into all these years ago – believes in kindness. She dreams of a better world and fights to make it real. But the girl she was didn’t _dream_ or believe in kindness. The things she had seen and survived, the things that lurk in Miryam’s memories, had taught her that kindness was an illusion and the only dreams that ever came real were nightmares.

Something wet drips on her hand and with a start, Miryam realizes that she is crying. She doesn’t even know when she started, but suddenly, the tears won’t stop. Her entire body is shaking.

“Are you okay with being touched?” Drakon asks softly. He is still sitting on the grass, completely still like he doesn’t dare to move.

Miryam nods shakily. She can’t manage to stop sobbing long enough to get a coherent reply out. She doesn’t notice Drakon getting to his feet, but then he is there, wrapping his arms around her. She clings to his coat and presses her face into his chest.

She cries and cries, until Drakon’s jacket is wet against her cheek and she has to stop because there seem to be no tears left. She realizes that somehow, she ended up almost lying on top of Drakon. She blushes and tries to get up, but she’s still shaky and nearly steps on Drakon’s wing in the process.

“Sorry,” she mutters, blush deepening and finally manages to get herself into an upright position.

They sit side by side in the grass, Drakon’s left wing wrapped around Miryam’s back, her head leaning against his shoulder.

“Ghost told me,” Drakon says, “About what he said to you.”

Miryam suspiciously eyes the sword at Drakon’s side, but Ghost is nowhere to be seen. She hopes he isn’t lurking about while invisible, listening to their conversation.

“We’ll figure something out,” Drakon says.

Miryam looks away. “Sure,” she mutters.

Once, _just this once_ , she had hoped things would be easy. That Ghost would teach her a few simple magic tricks, she would spend a while practicing, and then, everything would be alright. But of course, nothing is ever that easy. She should have known.

“Miryam,” Drakon says slowly, “Please tell me that you are going to try to solve this. If you just push it away again, that’s it. There won’t be another try for you, you know this.”

Miryam doesn’t reply. She doesn’t see a point in _trying_. She won’t be able to do it. It’s just too much, she can’t face this. Not now, not ever. But how could Drakon ever understand this?

“I know you’re scared – “ Drakon begins, but Miryam cuts him off.

“So what if I am?” She asks. “You think I’m just pushing all of this away for fun? _I can’t face this_. Because if I give these memories just one inch of room, they will swallow me whole. There’s only so much a person can endure, and this is too fucking much!” She snorts. “Maybe I should just ask Rhysand to remove all my memories of what happened.”

Drakon goes entirely still. “You don’t mean that,” he says in a too-quiet voice.

Miryam crosses her arms, but she really doesn’t mean it. Removing memories at this scale is impossible without doing irreparable damage to the person who gives up the memories. Whatever she is going through now, it will be nothing compared to what cutting out years of her life would do to her.

She’s just desperate and coming up with crazy ideas to hide the fact that she doesn’t know what to do.

“It’s just too much,” she whispers. “It’s all falling apart, and there are a million things… I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to do any of this.”

Drakon reaches for her hand. “You don’t have to get through this alone,” he says, “There are lots of people who love you and who are willing to help if only you’ll let them.” He squeezes her hand. “And you don’t have to do it all at once, either. No one expects you to somehow face all your trauma at once and then magically be okay – I don’t think that’s even possible. It’s going to be a slow process, and I’m not saying that it will be easy, but I do think that you can do it if you allow people to help you and start being a little kinder with yourself.”

Miryam bites her lower lip. “I only have a month, though.”

“I’m sure the tricks Ghost taught you will buy you some additional time,” Drakon says, “And in theory, handling your power should get easier the better you get at dealing with the other things.”

Miryam nods, even though she isn’t sure if this will be enough. None of this will remove the all-around stress of the war, the countless responsibilities she is trying to juggle. No matter how hard she tries to face her past, she doubts she will succeed while she is wearing herself down trying to fulfil all these duties.

But now that her feelings have calmed down a little, she knows that she still has to try. If only because there is no one else to replace her in the Alliance. And if she is out of the equation, who will be left to save her people?

“I’ll try,” she says, “but – “

With a soft pop, Ghost appears right in front of them, startling both Miryam and Drakon, who immediately reaches for the sword. Miryam wraps her arms around herself, hoping that Ghost didn’t listen to their conversation.

“Sorry to interrupt your moment,” Ghost says. “But there’s something going on with the strings that might concern you.”

Miryam looks up, frowning as she surveys the strings. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, but between Ghost and the sword, it is hard to tell. Half a thought has additional, smaller strings appear, but still, their movement doesn’t seem extraordinary.

“I don’t see anything,” she says, frowning.

“ _There_ ,” Ghost says, pointing. “It’s an anti-winnowing ward, can’t you see? Although I have to admit that whoever is setting it is very clever about it.”

Now, Miryam does notice some of the strings moving far too deliberately for it to be natural. Whoever is causing this is a witch. And one of the better ones, if Miryam isn’t mistaken. Her mind immediately goes to Artax.

Her power has gotten far better, but if she has to go up against another witch now, the outcome will be clear. She won’t win a fight today.

Drakon is already on his feet. “Can I still winnow?” He asks, panic colouring his voice.

“Yes,” Ghost says, “For about one more minute.”

Drakon whirls around to Miryam. “Please go back to the camp and warn Sinna. I need to – “ His hand shoots to the sword at his side. He looks back to the camp. “If it is Ravenia I have to – “

“I know,” Miryam cuts him off. “Go!”

Ghost disappears and reappears standing in front of Miryam. “Emotions fuel magic and yours are currently tearing you apart,” he says, “Find a way to live with them, or all the magical training in the world won’t be able to help you.”

With a start, Miryam realizes that they likely won’t see each other again. If it is truly Ravenia behind those wards, and if she is after the sword, then Drakon probably won’t be able to bring it again. (Looking at the power it exhibits, he shouldn’t have brought it at all.)

“Thank you,” Miryam says. She wants to say more, but Drakon winnows before she gets the chance.

Above, the strings suddenly begin to move around quickly. The commotion makes Miryam dizzy. Her own power rises, as if to answer the general frenzy, but before she has the chance, the strings fall back into place, forming a net over the camp. Even at the height of her power, Miryam doubts she could have stopped those wards. It’s Artax’s work, she is sure of it.

She jumps to her feet and runs back towards the camp.

\----

Drakon leans his back against the cave wall, trying to calm his breathing. “That,” he says, “was close.”

Too damn close. He can’t believe he was this callous with taking the sword away from Cretea. He _knew_ that Ravenia was after the sword, knew that she would stop at nothing to get it. Why didn’t he spent more time considering this? He should have taken more precautions, brought both Miryam and the sword to Erithia where it would have been safer.

“But everything turned out just fine,” Ghost says, “You got the sword out in time, and I’m back where I belong.”

There is a bitterness in his voice and Drakon realizes the tremendous unfairness of this situation. It was Ghost who helped them, and as thanks, he gets locked up back in his cave. It must be terribly lonely and boring, eternally trapped in the same place.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking over at the sword that’s back in its usual place in the centre of the cave.

He _could_ take it up and free Ghost. But he can’t, really. It’s not just about whether or not to trust Ghost – although there’s still part of Drakon that worries all of this might have been some big manipulation. The bigger problems are the general issues of using the sword. Ghost may assure him that he will survive, but Drakon highly doubts that he will survive _unscathed_. For all he knows, the sword might Besides, he is explicitly forbidden from using the sword or freeing Ghost, by both his family’s millennia old traditions and the will of a _goddess_.

No, he can’t free Ghost.

“Thank you,” Drakon says, “Truly.” Hesitates. “I’ll talk to Miryam. When she has control of her power again, that is. Maybe she knows a way to alter the spell that binds you so that you can at least leave move around freely on Cretea.”

Ghost remains completely motionless for a moment. “I doubt that will work,” he finally says, “But I am still grateful for your attempt.” He disappears without giving Drakon the chance to reply.

Drakon hurries on his way out of the cave and winnows as soon as possible. Miraculously, his camp is still undisturbed when he returns. An annoyed Sinna informs him that their patrols caught sight of a battalion of Black Land Soldiers only a mile south of their camp, but almost as soon as the wards were up, they vanished.

“I have no idea what they are planning,” she finishes, frowning deeply.

“Their plan failed already,” Drakon says, “I assume they left.”

“Miryam told me the same thing,” Sinna mutters. Then, she arches an eyebrow at Drakon and shakes her head. “She’s with the healers, since I assume that was to be your next question.”

Drakon smiles. “Thank you.” He says to walk off, but Sinna takes him by the arm.

“I know you love her,” she says, “and I won’t tell you not to. But please, Drakon, be careful how much closer you come to her.”

Drakon frowns at her. “What do you mean?”

“Should we win, there will surely be some kind of power struggle in the Alliance. And if that happens, being its leader will be a very unfortunate position to be in, especially for a young human woman with no army or lands of her own.”

Drakon slowly shakes his head. He doesn’t understand why the Alliance members would be stupid enough to get into a fight with each other, or what role Miryam, who has absolutely no ambitions to gain power, should take in such a struggle. But he does understand that Miryam might be in danger from yet another side, which is simply _unfair_. Doesn’t she have enough to deal with already?

“Thank you for the warning,” he manages.

He finds Miryam in the healers’ tent. She has her back turned to him and is talking to the camp’s head healer, excitedly pointing to some of the medications standing on display on one of the shelves. For once, she looks almost happy. Drakon watches for a moment, then turns around and leaves quietly, not wanting to disturb her. They can talk later.

\----

Miryam knows what has to come next. Maybe she has known for a while, deep down, even though she wasn’t brave enough to admit it.

The truth is this: Miryam can’t do it. Her power tearing her to shreds, nightmares chasing her from her sleep, a past she never learned to deal with. The entire Alliance her responsibility, the weight of millions of lives dragging her down. And Jurian, eternally caught in a downward spiral she doesn’t know how to stop, pulling her down with him. It is simply too much. She can’t carry all this weight, she simply isn’t strong enough.

If she doesn’t want to shatter into a million pieces, or die choking on her own power, part of the weight needs to go.

She could still help Jurian. Save him from himself somehow. But she can’t save him and run this Alliance, help them win this war. If she keeps trying, she will break and she will die and then, she will be no use to anyone. So it’s either Jurian or the Alliance. Her people or the man she loves. It’s the cruellest choice.

It’s no choice at all.

Still, Miryam can barely keep her nervousness at bay when she walks into their camp. Soon, it will be just Jurian’s camp, she realizes. The soldiers greet her happily, some ask where she was, and she feels a stab of shame at the thought that she is about to abandon them.

How will things work if Jurian has to run the camp alone? These days, large parts of the day-to-day work in the camp fall to Miryam, Jurian mainly focusing on the military aspect. And what will happen when he once again wants to ignore orders to chase after Amarantha and she isn’t there to stop him? The easiest solution would be for her to stay in the camp, but if she breaks up with him and still stays, nothing would really change.

If Miryam were just a little more responsible, a little braver, she would petition with the council to have Jurian replaced as camp leader. After all, that was the decision she made after the disaster between Jurian and Drakon – Jurian would keep his position, and she would make sure that nothing bad happened. Now that she cannot do that anymore, she should have him replaced. But she knows that she will never be able to do that to him. She can’t leave him and then go behind his back to get him stripped of his position, it would be far too cruel.

Jurian isn’t in his tent, and for a moment, Miryam is almost glad of it. It at least offers her a small reprieve before the inevitable confrontation. She takes her time searching for him, pausing to chat with soldiers several times. It helps that Jurian makes it hard to find him. He isn’t in the sparring ring, nor talking with his captains and one of them assures her that he is not out on a patrol, either. Finally, Miryam finds him in the stables, brushing his stallion’s fur.

She pauses in the door, simply watching him for a moment. He looks so tired, face tense. Looking at him, no one would ever believe that he is not even thirty yet. Miryam desperately, hopelessly wants to turn back the time to the beginning of the war. They weren’t fine back then either, but at least they were _happy_.

“Hello,” she says softly.

Jurian spins around to her, hand immediately going to his sword. When he recognizes her, he relaxes a bit and gives her a tense smile. “You’re back.”

Back for a moment. Back only to leave again, but this time permanently. Cauldron damn her, she doesn’t want to do this.

“Did everything go well while I was gone?” She asks. A coward’s attempt to delay what she has come here to say.

“Yes. I’ve been trying to figure out new ambush strategies – the last one was a mistake, but that won’t happen again. The next time, I’ll be prepared.”

Miryam nods. She pulls the stable door close behind her and sits down on a ball of hay. “We need to talk,” she says.

Jurian frowns and lowers his brush. “Sounds serious.”

“It is,” Miryam says. She tugs a strand of hair behind her hair, desperately wishing to be anywhere but here. “I don’t think…” She breaks off, then starts again. “I can’t go on like this, Jur.”

His frown deepens. “What do you mean?”

“I just…” She makes a vague hand gesture. “Do you feel like things between us have been going particularly well lately?”

“Are you still angry that I wasn’t there for the spell?” Jurian asks. “Look, I’m sorry about that. It won’t happen again, and –“

“It’s not about the spell,” Miryam interrupts. “It’s about us. Or me, rather. I just…” She shakes her head, can’t get herself to say the words. “I think it would be best if I went to stay in Telique for the time being,” she whispers.

“Does the council require this?” Jurian asks.

“No. But I think it would be for the best – for _me_ – to leave.”

Now, Jurian does turn around to her, eyes narrowed. “Leave the camp?” He asks softly. “Or leave me?”

Miryam lowers her head. “Both,” she whispers.

Jurian stares at her for a few heartbeats, face hard. “Then you ought to go pack,” he finally says and returns to brushing his horse’s fur.

On her hay ball, Miryam freezes. She didn’t know what kind of reaction to expect – from tears over bargaining to anger, all seemed possible. But she would never have expected such a cold dismissal. He might as well have slapped her.

Slowly, Miryam gets to her feet. Tears sting in her eyes, but she forces them down. She refuses to cry. Back straight, she walks out of the stable and quietly closes the door behind herself.

\----

Slowly, mechanically, Jurian keeps brushing the horse’s auburn fur. Miryam has left, and he is now alone in the stable. She’s probably packing her things. Maybe she’s already done. Maybe she left already, off to Telique, leaving him behind.

She just left. And he didn’t say anything to stop her. Maybe he should have. He could have begged her to stay, asked for an explanation, offered to change. But if she wanted to talk, she could have said so. Instead, she just chose to _leave_.

He doesn’t understand. If she had a problem, why didn’t she just _say something_? Or did she? He tries to remember, but can’t quite manage. Looking back, there might have been a few instances, but… Well, damnit, she should have been clearer. He isn’t a seer or a daemati! How can she expect him to just know what is going on with her at all times?

But maybe he would have seen, if only he had paid less attention to Amarantha and more to _her_. Amarantha, always Amarantha. She ruins everything. And Miryam… can’t she _see_ what he is trying to do? That he must keep meeting with Clythia, must destroy both her and Amarantha? Only then will things become right again.

Miryam just doesn’t understand. She never did. From the very beginning, she disliked his plan for using Clythia. Time and again, she tried to keep him from fighting against Amarantha. Without her keeping him back, he might have defeated Amarantha already. But Miryam just couldn’t understand, could she?

And still, he loves her.

He’ll make this right. Let her go to Telique for now. While she is gone, he will deal with Amarantha and Clythia. And then, everything will be alright again. She will see.

\----

The sunset finds Miryam sitting on a stone outside Drakon’s camp. She lets her feet dangle in the air and watches as the setting sun colours the sky first orange, then red and finally dark violet. The full moon is already in the sky, casting a pale light down on the earth.

The temperatures drop quickly and Miryam shivers in her thin linen clothes. She should probably get up and get back to the camp, but she doesn’t want to move. For the moment, she is content to sit out here and simply watch the sky.

It must be close to midnight when Drakon sits down next to her.

“I brought you a cloak,” he says and hands her a grey wool cloak. Miryam gratefully wraps it around herself, immediately warm.

“Thank you,” she says. “Not just for the cloak. For everything.” Drakon makes to reply, but Miryam quickly adds, “And I haven’t apologized yet, for lying about what was happening with me.”

“I understand why you did it,” Drakon says, which is not quite the same as _it’s okay_.

“It was still shitty.” More than that.

“Then can we agree that we don’t lie to each other?” Drakon asks. “It doesn’t mean we have to tell each other everything. But I don’t want to always have to second-guess whatever you tell me, trying to figure out if it was true.”

Miryam winces. Her lies always felt harmless, but maybe they weren’t. No lie is ever truly harmless, and “I’m fine” may just be more of a problem than most. Maybe if she’d ever told Jurian the truth, things between them might have gone differently.

“No more lies,” she says softly. “I promise.” She tilts her head backwards and looks up at the moon. “I broke up with Jurian today.”

“Oh,” Drakon says. He sounds a little helpless. “Are you… I mean…”

Miryam is about to tell him that she’s fine, but then, she remembers their agreement not to lie at each other. “It feels like I’m abandoning him,” she says instead. “But I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

Drakon nods, and doesn’t comment further. Miryam is glad – she doesn’t want to be reassured right now. Instead, he asks, “So where are you going now.”

“Telique, for the moment,” she says, thinking of Andromache’s offer. “From there…” She shrugs. “I’ll see.”


	40. Chapter 40

## Chapter 40

Miryam survives the next month, as well as the one after that, and the one after that, which probably means that she is doing something right when it comes to dealing with her problems, even if it doesn’t always feel like it. Especially when she keeps waking up drenched in sweat in the strange bed in her suite in Telique, when the shadows chase after her through the palace halls or she sees Ravenia and Artax lurking in the dark, it is terribly hard to feel like she is making any progress at all.

But after the first month – the month that was supposed to have been her last – she can’t deny that things are improving. Slowly, unsteadily, but it does get better. The hallucinations get fewer and further in between and trying to talk about her feelings no longer feels quite so much like there are shards of glass stuck in her throat. Even Jurian’s absence that she felt like a missing limb in the first weeks becomes more bearable.

Life falls into a rhythm that far from comfortable but about as good as it gets in the middle of a war. Living in Telique means that her life is now centred around politics, but while it can become exhausting at times, it also makes many things easier. It also helps that her assignments as a witch become fewer and further in between, removing that stress factor from her daily life. Miryam suspects either Andromache or Nakia have something to do with that development, even though they both adamantly deny any involvement.

But the biggest change out of all has less to do with Miryam personally and everything with the Alliance because after over five years of war, the Alliance Fae seem to have finally decided to truly commit to the fighting. It’s a miracle – and perhaps the final proof that most Fae are selfish bastards. Millennia of human suffering have barely been able to touch them, but the moment the fighting reaches their doorstep, they manage to put their private struggles aside and start truly working together.

It’s ridiculous, really. Ravenia with her disregard for the rules of war manages to do what over five years of war and all of Miryam’s struggles haven’t been able to achieve and gets the Alliance members to finally put their differences aside. If Miryam wasn’t so relieved that it looks like they might actually _win_ this war for the first time in years, she would be furious.

Sitting at her desk, she finishes up a draft for soldier transitions for the next month, then neatly puts the papers on a stack and looks at the clock. Quarter to six. She’ll be late to her meeting with Drakon, but at least she’s finished with her paperwork for the moment. Miryam gets up, stretching her stiff limbs. She’s been sitting over her work for at least four hours without pause.

Still a little stiff, she walks out of her office. Tasia is sitting at their own desk in a smaller office outside of Miryam’s and they are still bowed over a stack of papers. Tasia is a secretary, formerly employed in Andromache’s staff until the queen transferred them to Miryam, insisting that the leader of the Alliance should have at least some kind of assistance. Miryam was uncomfortable having anyone working directly for her at first, but all the other councilmembers have assistants, so it must be fine. It helps that her and Tasia have formed a friendship over the past months, after Tasia had gotten over their initial hero-worship of Miryam and stopped calling her “my lady” every sentence.

“Anything important?” Miryam asks, nodding at the stack of papers that formed in front of Tasia.

“Not really.” They scrunch up their nose, shaking their head. “But this letter is weird.” They pick it up and hand it to Miryam. “It says on the envelope that it’s only meant for your eyes, so I didn’t open it.”

Miryam takes the letter from them and frowns down at it. The envelope is made of thick paper, clearly expensive. Miryam carefully opens it and takes out the letter.

_Lady Miryam,_

_I know it has been several years since we have seen each other, but I hope you still remember me and the favour you owe me. I’d like to call it in now. Meet me tomorrow at dusk on the spot where we last saw each other._

_Until then, Eris._

“Are you well?” Tasia asks.

Miryam realizes that she has been flaring down at the letter, crumbling the paper in her hand. She schools her fingers back into neutrality and forces her fingers to relax.

“Yes,” she says with a smile. “Just a particularly unpleasant acquaintance of mine.” She neatly folds the letter and puts it into her pocket. “I’ve got to go. Why don’t you head home a bit earlier today as well? You can finish up the letters tomorrow.”

Tasia smiles and jumps to their feet. “Thank you.”

Miryam smiles and walks out of her quarters, calling out greetings to some of the guards and servants as she passes. After a few months in the palace, she knows many of the people working here, especially the ones who usually work near her quarters, and Miryam formed loose friendships with some of them.

Drakon is waiting in the gardens, back leaned against the wall. He’s talking to one of the human guards who are posted by the gates, but quickly excuses himself when he sees Miryam and walks over to her.

These meetings have become another part of Miryam’s new life in Telique. They don’t always meet the same day or at the same time because the war has a habit of ruining any schedule they try to come up with, but usually, they manage to get in a few hours every week. Even those few hours are stolen time and usually mean that they both have to cut down on sleeping that day, but Miryam has come to treasure these moments that seem to belong entirely to herself.

“Where are we going today?” Miryam asks.

“It’s a surprise,” Drakon says and holds out a hand to her.

There is no general rule to the things they do together, except for the fact that these hours belong entirely to them. They’ve visited a theatre in Erithia, gone out for dinner in Telique, spent an evening playing cards and visited the tulip fields in one of the southern kingdoms. Especially in the beginning, taking even these few hours for herself when she could be working seemed selfish, but she can’t argue that it _helps_. It doesn’t make the nightmares go away or ease the pain of what happened, but when she feels like she is drowning in responsibilities, knowing that she can get out – if only for a few hours – at least allows her to breathe.

Today, Drakon winnows them to a dense forest. Mist is hanging high up in the trees and the air is humid. They landed next to a bush with huge, purple flowers the size of Miryam’s head. In front of one of the, a yellow hummingbird the size of Miryam’s finger is hovering. Amazed, she watches it until it is whizzes away.

“Erithia?” Miryam asks.

Drakon nods. “I hope you don’t mind a short walk.”

Miryam doesn’t mind at all. They walk through the forest in silence for a moment, climbing over fallen trees and rocks. The ground rises, first slowly, then the way becomes steeper. Miryam is out of breath far more quickly than usual, which is probably a side effect of now living in a city. She really needs to remember to exercise more. However she will manage to squeeze that into her schedule.

“I know these meetings are meant to be a war-free zone,” Miryam says, “but there’s something I need to tell you about and it can’t wait.”

Drakon frowns. His face immediately turns serious, and Miryam feels bad for bringing the war into their meetings, but she really can’t change it this time.

“Remember what I told you about my visit to Autumn?” She asks. Drakon nods and she continues. “Well, I wasn’t entirely truthful about how it went down. The truth is that Eris Vanserra warned me about the trap and helped me escape.”

“Eris Vanserra? But not the one who – “

“ – was engaged to Mor, yes.” Miryam sighs. “He demanded a favour in return, without specifying what it was. I had no choice but to accept. He wants to meet me tomorrow to call it in.”

Drakon curses. “The Autumn Court is allied to the Loyalists,” he says, “And Eris is…”

“A piece of shit. I know.” Miryam sighs. “But I owe him, so I have to meet him tomorrow.”

“Well, you could always…” Drakon squirms and starts fiddling around with his clothes. “I mean, you could…” He breaks off.

“I can’t just not go.”

“No, I mean…” Drakon sighs through his nose. “I haven’t ever done this, but there are people in my employ – were in my father’s employ, I mean – who could… You know. Make sure he doesn’t show up.”

Miryam stops walking and stares at him. She turns her head over in his head, trying to find how she is misunderstanding them, only to come to the conclusion that he is indeed saying what she thinks he’s saying.

“Are you offering to have Eris _assassinated_ for me?” She asks.

Drakon looks down at his feet. “Well…” He tugs at his hair, making it fall over his face. “I mean, I wouldn’t… But…” He wraps his arms around himself. “He left Mor for dead in that forest,” he says, as if he’s trying to defend himself. “He…”

“He would certainly deserve it,” Miryam interjects gently to save him from his obvious mortification at his own suggestion. She still can’t quite believe that _Drakon_ suggested something like this.

She bites her lower lip. How she’d love to agree, if only for what he did to Mor. She would kill him herself for that if she could. But he saved her life. No matter how selfish his reasons might have been, she owes him. Miryam, like most people on the Continent, values honour, and honour demands that she repays the debt she owes him. She can kill him afterwards, but not before.

“Thank you for the offer,” she says, “But I think I should at least listen to what he has to say first.” If the price he demands is too high, she can still ask Drakon to send one of his assassins.

“Of course.” Now, Drakon seems even more mortified at his own suggestion. “I shouldn’t have… I mean…”

Miryam takes him by the hand. “It was a good idea,” she says, “And it would have been well-deserved. I might come back to it some time.” She grins and squeezes his head. “Much as I appreciate your willingness to have Eris murdered for me, I was just going to ask you to accompany me to the meeting. I can’t winnow, after all.”

“Oh.” She didn’t think it was possible, but Drakon manages to look even more mortified. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” Miryam squeezes his hand and keeps walking. “Then that’s it with the war for today. Now, where were we going?”

“Still a surprise,” Drakon mutters.

Miryam grins and starts questioning about one of the new laws he’s working on. Talking to him about his laws is always a sure way to distract him, and it works again today. She knows that Drakon has gotten over his shock about his own suggestion when he changes the subject from Erithian politics to Miryam.

“How are you?” He asks.

Answering that question has gotten a whole lot trickier since they agreed not to lie to each other. Her usual “fine” no longer works, so she has to either refuse to answer – which she has done more than once already – or actually talk about her feelings.

“Better than last week,” she says, which is true, but doesn’t say much. Last week was terrible. For the first time in weeks, the hallucinations had reappeared and Miryam had to cancel all of her meetings for an entire day because she couldn’t get out of bed. “And I slept four hours at a time last night, so I think that’s a new record.”

“That’s good,” Drakon says. He easily climbs up a steep passage, wings flared for balance, then holds out a hand to Miryam to help her up.

“I ran into Jurian yesterday,” she says when as she’s standing next to him and they continue walking side by side.

When Miryam decided she needed to leave Jurian, she didn’t have any kind of idea for what their relationship would look like afterwards. She had hoped they could remain friends, but she figured the choice was with Jurian, and he didn’t seem interested in ever seeing her again.

But as usual, war interfered with their plans. Three weeks after Miryam left for Telique, two of Jurian’s captains stood in her office, begging her to return. Without Miryam, they lack someone to coordinate the army and deal with the logistics, and things are running into difficulties. She wanted to return right away, but Andromache told her off for being stupid and asked how often she wanted to test her limits until she finally accepted that she had them. (Andromache has the unfortunate habit of getting exactly to the point and making it impossible to argue with her.)

So now, she visits Jurian’s camp once a week to help out with the logistics. Jurian isn’t pleased with the arrangement and usually does his best to stay out of her way, but today, they ran into each other when she was on her way out of the camp.

“How is he?” Drakon asks.

Miryam shrugs. “He still doesn’t want to talk to me, so it’s hard to tell.” She tries and fails not to sound bitter. Jurian barely had half a look for her yesterday. Not that she can really blame him. “But I think it’s getting worse,” she adds.

Drakon nods, looking down at his feet. “I keep thinking we should find some way to help him. And I know we tried, but…” He shrugs.

“I know,” Miryam says softly. Rationally, she knows that neither her nor Drakon could have done anything else to help. Jurian doesn’t talk to Drakon anymore, and Miryam… Well, she simply isn’t strong enough for to help him. But there’s always the feeling that they could have done more.

Drakon sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You know what, I bet we’re both thinking something like: _You couldn’t have done anything, but I should have found a way if only I’d tried_ right now.”

“How could _you_ have helped Jurian when he wasn’t speaking to you?” Miryam asks, only to realize that she just reaffirmed what Drakon had been saying.

“And you were _dying_ ,” Drakon says. “Realistically speaking, my chances were better.”

Miryam opens her mouth to object, to say that she could have managed, then sighs. It’s pretty damn obvious that she _couldn’t have_. It couldn’t have been more obvious that she had reached her limit.

She shakes her head and lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “This is all fucked,” she mutters.

Drakon simply nods, and she is so, so grateful that he doesn’t offer any empty words of comfort right now. If he had said anything, she would have known he was lying just to make her feel better, and then, she would have had to dismiss the rest he said as well. The next time he has to help her over one of the steep passages, she doesn’t let go of his hand afterwards.

They have been walking for almost an hour when the trees in front of them suddenly part. In front of them, a wide canyon yawns open. Reddish rocks with black lines running through the stone. With a roar like thunder, a waterfall crashes down into the deep, hundreds and hundreds of feet into a river that flows through the bottom of the canyon.

“Beautiful,” she whispers.

Drakon smiles. “We can go sit over there,” he says and points towards a stone that reaches out over the canyon’s edge.

Miryam takes a step backwards. “Uhm.” She eyes the stone. It looks very thin, and under the stone, it’s a very long way down. “Just making sure: You know that I don’t have wings, right?”

Drakon grins. “It’s a very solid stone. I promise.”

Miryam looks from Drakon to the stone and back. “Okay,” she says, giving herself a mental shove.

She isn’t even scared of heights, not after spending so many hours in a bird’s head. Slowly, she walks towards the stone and steps on it. It remains perfectly solid under her feet. She walks until she can see all the way down to the ground of the canyon, then, she sits down. Drakon sits down next to her.

“I used to come here with my sisters when I was younger,” he says. “Well, not often, because they were usually busy with their own duties. But when they had time, we packed camping supplies and flew all the way from Sajeo.” He stares down at the waterfall for a moment longer, then shakes his head and starts looking through his bag.

“What were they like?” Miryam asks as Drakon fishes out a blanket, some bread, cheese and even a small cake from his bag. “Your sisters.”

“Wonderful,” Drakon says simply. He neatly puts down his blanket, then spreads out the food over it. Only then does he continue. “Leja was the oldest, already well over two hundred years old when I was born. She was quiet, solemn, but there was no one better to go to if you had a problem. Daliah was almost a century younger and completely different, loud and wild. She could always make you smile, no matter how serious a situation might be.” He smiles sadly. “They were both brilliant. My father had a hard time picking which of them to make heiress.” He shakes his head. “I loved them.”

Miryam nods. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Drakon cuts off a slice of bread with his dagger, adds some cheese and hands it to Miryam.

“Look,” he says and nods towards the canyon.

Miryam turns and nearly drops her bread in surprise. The moon has climbed higher in the sky, high enough to shine into the canyon, and now casts its light down onto the waterfall and the river. Little drops of water glimmer like diamonds and the water rushing down seems to be made of liquid silver.

“That – “ Miryam begins, but the words catch in her throat. She can only stare at the down into the canyon and hope that somehow, her mind will preserve the image so that she can revisit it whenever she feels the need.

\----

Jurian is aware of Miryam’s absence every moment, every day. Lying in bed, talking to his soldiers, looking through his correspondence. He always knows that she isn’t there with him, that if he turns around, she won’t be there. The only times he manages to forget is when he’s fighting, or planning a new way to catch Amarantha. But even _that_ now seems to be connected to Miryam.

She left him. She left and didn’t look back. Didn’t even _try_ to understand him. All this talk of doing what it takes, and the moment he did exactly that, she left him. Because she couldn’t take it. Wasn’t _he_ the one who had to endure Clythia’s touches, who spent every waking moment working to bring Amarantha down. But she was the one who couldn’t take it. And now, his life is going to hell, and Miryam gets out completely fine.

It’s the worst on the days she visits. She doesn’t visit him, of course, she comes to deal with the camp. The first few times, she also tried to talk to him, but he screamed at her to leave him alone, to stay the hell away. And eventually, she did.

He didn’t want her to. Or maybe he did. These days, it is hard to tell. He wants Miryam to come back to him. He never wants to see her again. He loves her, he hates her, all at once. It’s tearing him apart.

Jurian presses his palms against his temple, trying to ease the headache forming there. Last night, he once again chose working on his battle strategies over sleep. The sun is too bright in his eyes and he downs another glass of the expensive wine Clythia brought to their meeting.

“What are you thinking about?” Clythia asks.

 _Miryam_ , Jurian thinks, _and ways to murder you and your sisters._ But unfortunately, Amarantha has proven impossible to get a hold on lately. None of Jurian’s traps seem to work, she always manages to slip through his fingers, and she doesn’t dare to face him in open combat.

“I’m thinking about how beautiful you are,” Jurian says. The words are ridiculously cheesy, but of course, Clythia still blushes and leans forward to kiss him.

Jurian refills his glass.

“Doesn’t it ever bother you that I’m mortal?” He asks between sips. It might not be the smartest question, but his head is beginning to feel light from the alcohol, and Clythia never once catches on to anything he says or does. She’ll likely interpret this as him being worried about her losing interest or something similarly idiotic. “For all your talk of forever, you must know that I will die sooner or later.”

Just this once, he wants her to show a hint of understanding that they are not the same. That they stand on opposite sides of a war, that he is human and will always be and that this romance she came up with and praises to the skies is nothing but the delusion of a bored, rich Fae noble. Clythia, always trailing around after her sister, getting lost between past and future, read too many of her love stories and tried to make one real in the most catastrophic way possible.

If she wasn’t trying to enslave his people, if she wasn’t so completely indifferent to their suffering, Jurian might feel bad for her delusions. But any pity Jurian might once have held for spoiled, arrogant, indifferent Fae has long since burned away.

Clythia brushes the question of with her usual irreverence. “You needn’t worry about that.” She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, smiling cheerfully. “I actually meant for this to be a surprise, but I talked to Amarantha about this exact problem.”

“Oh?” Jurian asks. In his experience, anything that involves Amarantha ends badly for him.

“Yes!” She smiles. “She was sceptical at first, but I convinced her to look into the King’s spellbook for me and she says she found a spell that can conserve a person’s soul through time.”

She doesn’t seem to realize how terrible that sounds. Jurian doesn’t want his soul to be _conserved_ , whatever that means. A commander he once knew kept dead reptiles in glasses on his desk, conserved in some kind of liquid, and this is what the word reminds Jurian of. He suppresses a shudder as he realizes that he wouldn’t put it past Clythia to put _him_ in a glass and display him in her rooms. She’d probably find it romantic, too.

“And you think that will work?” He asks, trying not to show his unease.

“I know it will.” Clythia smiles brightly. “You will live forever. I’ve seen it.”

A shiver runs down Jurian’s spine. “Seen?” He asks. “You mean in your visions?”

“Yes!” She takes his hand. “So you see: Everything is going to be fine.”

This time, Jurian foregoes the glass and drinks straight out of the bottle.

\----

“I don’t know why we are even here,” Sinna mutters. She is dressed in full battle armour, a sword and three daggers at her side. And she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

Miryam sighs. “You don’t need to feel obliged to wait around with me, though. You could leave and pick me up again in an hour or so.”

An hour ago, Drakon sent her a messenger that he is stuck in an emergency meeting with his council back in Erithia after Ravenia’s soldiers attacked a bigger city, and that he won’t be able to get out in time for Miryam’s meeting with Eris. He sent Sinna instead, and Miryam suspects the general would much rather be back in Erithia, chasing after Ravenia’s soldiers. The entire issue is probably on Miryam for not thinking of a back-up plan should Drakon be unable to accompany her.

“Oh, rubbish.” Sinna shakes her hand as if insulted by the very notion. “As if I’d ever leave you alone with someone like Vanserra.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste and shakes her head. “No, I don’t know why you insist to go to this meeting.”

“Because I owe him a debt and am honour-bound to fulfil it,” Miryam says, but the words taste bitter. Every time she thinks of Eris Vanserra, all she can see is the pain on Mor’s face.

“Why do you need to honour a promise when the circumstances that forced you to make it were so unhonourable?” Sinna asks sharply. “Prythian knows nothing of Continental honour, so why are you keeping to it when dealing with one of them?”

Miryam wraps her arms around herself, shivering slightly. They are far north here, and Miryam’s cloak, although lined with fur, does little to keep the cold out. “I like this as little as you do,” she says, “but – “

Eris Vanserra appears before them. Red-haired and with a slight built, he looks like a younger version of his father, perhaps not quite as cruel yet. Sinna’s hand goes to her sword and lingers even ling after she must have recognized him. Eris must notice the gesture, but he doesn’t comment, instead surveying Sinna from head to toe.

“I thought I asked you to keep our arrangement quiet,” he says to Miryam.

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have requested a meeting in the middle of nowhere,” Miryam replies. “I can’t winnow, as you know, and you can hardly expect me to walk all the way from Telique to swim over to Prythian.”

Eris sneers, then whirls around to Sinna. “And you are?”

“General Sinna of Erithia,” Sinna replies curtly. Her face remains neutral, but her eyes are positively simmering. Eris stares back.

“What do you want, Eris?” Miryam asks before either of them can do something stupid.

Eris interrupts his staring contest with Sinna and turns to Miryam. “You owe me a favour,” he says. “I’d like to call it in.”

“Autumn is allied with the Loyalists. I can think of no favour you’d want from me.”

“We’ve been reconsidering our alliances lately.”

Sinna shakes her head, tapping the hilt of her sword. “So now that we are winning this war, you want to switch sides. You’ve done no work and taken no risks. Why would we allow you to receive parts of the spoils?”

“That’s exactly why I need dear Miryam,” Eris says.

Miryam doesn’t particularly appreciate being called _dear_ , and she likes Eris’s request even less. “Your court already betrayed this Alliance and once. I’d be a fool to trust you again.”

“If I assure you that we won’t betray you again, will that ease your mind?” Eris asks, but his tone is mocking.

“It might, if I trusted your word.”

“Ouch.” Eris puts a hand over his heart in mock-hurt, but his face remains twisted in his eternal sneer. “What have I done to deserve such a cold dismissal?”

“I believe you know.”

Eris’s posture changes, his sneer vanishes. “I was forced into this engagement as much as Morrigan was. My father required it – what choice did I have? I would never have touched Morrigan, but when she slept with that bastard friend of hers, it was so clear why she did it. She wanted out of that engagement, wanted it so badly she was willing to risk everything for it. I did exactly what she wanted to when I broke off that engagement. How could I have known that her family would…” He shakes his head. Lowers his eyes, the picture of quiet regret.

Miryam wonders with quiet puzzlement if he truly believed this would work. If he did, it’s almost insulting. Of all the routes he could have gone, he chose to act like he was always secretly good? Miryam almost laughs. She’d sooner have believed that he had a change of heart.

But the fascinating thing about people like Eris is that they somehow seem to believe that all people who value things like kindness must also be naïve. Somehow, it’s a common assumption that anyone who considers himself to be good must also believe in the good in others.

Should Eris believe this of her, believe that he could trick her this easily, he is truly a fool. Miryam has seen the worst Fae have to offer and she never, not _once_ , believed that there is good in every Fae. In her experience, it is smartest to meet any of them with a certain degree of suspicion until they have proven trustworthy, and as far as she is concerned, Eris has proven himself to be very _un_ trustworthy indeed.

And as for his excuses, Miryam doesn’t believe a word. His reputation for cruelty has to come from _somewhere_ and if he did even half of the things rumour says he did, he is a monster, no matter what his reasons might have been. And if he was truly concerned about Mor’s wellbeing, he would have spoken to her to ease her fears as soon as the engagement was announced. Or he would have at least helped her when he found her in the forest.

“Pick another favour,” she says.

“I think I want this one.” Eris’s smile returns. “And our deal doesn’t give you leave to refuse my requests at will.”

The sound of metal on leather makes them both turn to Sinna. She has been watching in silence, but now, she draws her sword halfway out of its sheath.

“No deal if you are dead,” she says softly.

Eris keeps his eyes trained on the sword. For the first time, he looks somewhat worried. “It that your version of honour, Lady Miryam?” He asks.

“It is yours,” Miryam says.

Sinna glances at her, as if waiting for confirmation. For a moment, Miryam is almost tempted to give it. Chances that Eris told anyone of the meeting are slim, as that would require revealing _why_ she owes him a favour, and even if he told anyone, they’d need to prove that Miryam was behind his death.

Still, it would be a risk, not just for her but also for Sinna and, by association, Erithia. Besides, Eris did save her life, even if it was for selfish reasons. She owes him, and murdering him during a peaceful meeting would be wrong. It might make things easier for her, he certainly deserves it, but Miryam values honour a bit too much to be able to do this.

Slowly, she shakes her head at Sinna, who pauses a moment, then slowly lets her sword slide back into its sheath.

“Alright,” Miryam says to Eris. “I’ll make sure the Autumn Court gets allowed into the Alliance. With that, our debt is settled.”

Eris gives her an insufferably smug smile. “Glad we – “

“If you betray the Alliance,” Miryam cuts him off, “you won’t live to enjoy whatever that betrayal buys you.” She releases her grip on her power, just enough for it to be noticeable in the air. “And if you dare to approach Morrigan, to bother her in any way, I’ll make sure you regret it. Understood?”

Eris’s smile has faded during her speech, and now, his face is tight. “Understood,” he says with barely concealed anger, then bows and winnows without waiting for a reply.

Only then does Sinna let go of her sword. Miryam allows her posture to relax and rubs her hands over her face. Damnit. Damn Eris.

“Could you please winnow me to Andromache’s camp?” She asks. “I need to talk to Mor.”

\----

Mor has been called back to the Night Court and she hates it. It’s been years now since she visited the Hewn City, and she has almost forgotten how terrible it is. How the stone seems to press in on her, how they seem to press all life and hope out of the people living in it. She hates this place, hates it more than anything else. If only she could bring the entire cursed mountain down, burying this horrible place under tons of stone.

But she can’t. She still has to play by the Night Court’s rules, follow her uncle’s orders. And today, he ordered her to go meet him.

She knocks at the door to the High Lord’s office, waiting for the gruff order to enter before pushing it open.

“My Lord,” she says, inclining her head in greeting.

“Sit,” the High Lord says, pointing to a chair opposite him. “How are you, Morrigan?”

“Well.”

“And Lady Miryam?” He asks.

Every time he asks Mor to meet him, he always asks after Miryam, and every time, he sounds like he very badly hopes to hear that she is fatally ill.

“She’s fine,” Mor says, because that’s the reply she always gives, whether Miryam is actually fine or dying.

Lately, she is lying far less than usual, though. Miryam _is_ getting better. She no longer looks like a shadow, fading more and more with each day, and her smiles seem more genuine now. She should have broken up with Jurian sooner. No matter how much Miryam might deny that Jurian was the reason why she was unwell, it seems clear to Mor that he must have had something to do with it.

The High Lord nods, seeming dissatisfied as he always does. The rest of the conversation also follows a pre-established pattern. He questions Mor about the goings of the Alliance, particularly on the human side, but also with the Fae and Mor answers to the best of her knowledge.

“Very good,” he says when she is done. “Once the war is over, I might give you a position in court. A few years and you might be emissary to the entire Continent.”

Mor sucks in a sharp breath. The Night Court, like most Prythian courts, has a significant lack of people who are well-versed in Continental politics, so Mor’s knowledge and position are actually somewhat valuable to them. Still, she never would have thought that her uncle would allow her to hold any kind of position at court. And if he makes her emissary…

She nearly squeals. No more Court of Nightmares, never again. Being made emissary would give her leave to spend most of the time on the Continent. She’d have to do what the High Lord wants her to, but at the same time, she would be _free_. And she’d have reason to keep visiting Andromache without anyone suspecting. It’s perfect.

“Thank you,” she says. “I would be honoured.”

The High Lord smiles at her. “Good. I had worried you had taken a fancy to becoming a soldier.” Mor freezes and he waves her off. “You didn’t truly think I hadn’t noticed that my favourite niece was now fighting in battle?”

Just like that, any elation Mor felt a moment ago vanishes. She breathes in through the nose and watches her uncle. Was the offer a trap? Did he want to get her hopes up only to crush them and punish her for her disobedience? But he wouldn’t do that, would he? Maybe to Rhys, but he always liked Mor better, treated her with less cruelty. And he can’t just fire her as emissary, not without crossing Miryam in the process.

“I’ll admit, I was sceptical at first, but my sources tell me that you’re doing well,” he says.

Mor is only relieved for a moment. Then, the realization that he must have spies trailing her hits her like a brick. Her and Andromache have been careful, but were they careful enough? If her uncle finds out… He won’t have any reason to keep her secret, maybe he’ll even punish her himself.

“I’ve just been wondering,” he continues, “if you ever noticed anything extraordinary while fighting.”

What kind of question is that? But unless this is some kind of twisted game, it means that he neither plans to punish her nor knows about Andromache.

“No?” She says, making the answer sound more like a question.

The High Lord nods, seeming neither disappointed nor surprised. “Tell me, Morrigan, what do you know about your powers?”

This conversation is getting weirder with each comment he makes. Mor shrugs. “Once every thousand-or-so years, a member of my family gets born with the power of Truth.” Truth with a capital T, for whatever reason. “The child in question is always called Morrigan, so I’m actually the _fourteenth_ Morrigan in my family. Apart from fancy naming traditions, the powers themselves are rather boring, though.”

Her uncle nods at her to go on. Mor is beginning to find this rather ridiculous, but she complies.

“I can sense if people are lying,” she says, “And I can read people, meaning I use my power to see their true selves, their very essence, if you will.” _And yours isn’t particularly pretty._ “Really, it’s just a lot of excitement about a power that is, when it comes down to it, not all that useful.”

Mor has quite the chunk of power for her Basic Abilities on top of it, so it’s not like she can complain about not being powerful enough. But when it comes to Higher Arts, she really drew the short stick. Considering what witches, shadowsingers or daemati can do, Truth always seemed like a rather lame option to her.

Her uncle nods. “I’ve been looking through old records lately,” he says, “and I came across a text about one of the earlier Morrigans – the sixth, if I’m not mistaken. Apparently, she was able to do more than what you describe. Much more. It was said that she could see the truth about anything in this world, that she could make the proudest Fae beg for mercy in the blink of an eye, and destroy entire armies.” He perches his head on his clasped hands and watches Mor out of dark eyes. “You wouldn’t be able to do anything like this, would you?”

“No,” Mor says, but a shiver of excitement runs through her. “Unfortunately not.”

It’s not that she particularly _wants_ to destroy armies, or know the truth about anything. But that kind of power seems like the ultimate protection, ultimate freedom. Keir, Eris, all these horrible people slithering around in this festering court – none of them would ever be able to touch her again. They wouldn’t _dare_. She would be just as untouchable as Miryam is, and isn’t that all she ever wanted?

“Could I borrow the text?” She asks, suddenly feeling bold. Her uncle isn’t angry at her, or trying to get her in trouble. He just sees her as a possible new weapon. “I’d like to look into this.

Her uncle smiles. “Of course,” he says, sounding very satisfied with himself.

It’s already past sunset when Mor returns to Andromache’s camp. All she wants right now is a hot meal, and then maybe some quiet time with Andromache. But when she pushes open the entrance to Andromache’s tent, she finds the queen sitting inside together with Miryam.

Mor pushes away her momentary disappointment – she’d really hoped to get some time alone with Andromache today – and smiles at both of them. Then, her eyes travel to the table where a tray with buns has been laid out.

“Ah, thank the Cauldron,” Mor says, “Food.”

Miryam smiles and passes her the tray. Mor takes one bun, considers and grabs a second as well.

“I skipped lunch,” she says between bites, plopping down on a pillow next to Andromache. “And you two? Discussing Alliance matters again?”

“Actually, I was waiting for you,” Miryam says. Her tone is far too serious for Mor’s liking. “How was your meeting with your uncle?”

Mor shrugs. She doesn’t feel like repeating what he said to her. It’s not that she necessarily wants to keep it secret, she just doesn’t feel like sharing it just yet. “I didn’t run into my father, so I guess it went well.” She smiles tiredly. “Why were you waiting for me? Did something happen?”

With Miryam, it’s usually something serious. Somehow, she seems to attract serious problems more than anyone else Mor knows. Things have been going better lately, but who knows what trouble Miryam has gotten into now.

“Not really. But there’s a new political development, and I thought I’d tell you before you find out some other way.” Miryam sighs. “The Autumn Court will be joining the Alliance,” she says, sounding not at all pleased about it.

Mor nearly drops her bun. She stares at Miryam, then slowly begins to shake her head. Isn’t it bad enough that Keir is a member of this Alliance? Must Eris also join now? Carefully, she puts her bun down on her leg, fingers trembling slightly.

“Can’t we stop them?” Andromache asks. She reaches for Mor’s hand and squeezes it. “They sold you out to the Loyalists once before, surely that would make it easy for you to refuse their plea to join.”

Hope flutters in Mor’s chest, but Miryam shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Andromache presses.

“Because Eris helped me escape when his father sold me out to the Loyalists,” Miryam says, voice flat. “And he demanded a favour in return.” She presses her lips together. “I’m lucky it’s only this he’s asking.”

Mor stares at her, blinking. She never questioned how exactly Miryam, who can’t even winnow, managed to get out of Autumn that day. It seemed enough that she was alive and well, but _this_ …

“You promised Eris a favour,” she says flatly. “That monster could ask _anything_ of you.”

“I know,” Miryam says, lifting her hands as if in surrender. “And I’m sorry – “

“I’m not _angry_ ,” Mor cuts her off. She can’t believe Miryam would think that. Why would she be angry? “I’m…” She shakes her head. “You’re one of my closest friends, and you apparently owe everything to the bastard who… Out of all the things I’m feeling about this, anger is not one of them.” At least anger at Miryam.

“I made sure Eris will stay away from you,” Miryam says. “But I realize this is still uncomfortable for you. So it’s up to you. I won’t go through with this if you don’t want me to. I could make sure Eris is… in no state to call in his favour, or bother either of us ever again, if this is what you want.”

Mor almost says yes right there. The words are at the tip of her tongue, but somehow, her mouth won’t form them. She wants Eris dead, she truly does. Eris and Keir both. But…

“Wouldn’t killing him go against your honour?” She asks.

As someone from Prythian, she doesn’t entirely understand why Continental Fae and humans are so obsessed with their honour, but she does know that it’s important to them. Especially important for anyone with a position in politics.

“No one would find out, so there would hardly be any repercussion,” Miryam says. “But yes. Killing Eris to avoid having to fulfil a favour owed would be considered dishonourable.”

Mor nods. “Then don’t kill him.”

Andromache frowns. “Are you sure?” She asks.

Mor nods, but she can’t help but wonder if she truly refused the offer for Miryam’s sake, or if that was just a convenient excuse to hide that somehow, she isn’t capable of killing Eris, nor of letting someone else do it for her. It isn’t out of any sort of moral objection, or out of fear of punishment. She just _can’t_.

They are always there, constants in her nightmares waking and sleeping, whether they still live or not. Mor is afraid of them, but killing them won’t remove that fear, it will simply cut its tether. As long as Eris and Keir are alive, Mor’s fears have a fix point, and she doesn’t know what will happen if she removes that. But she knows that before she can kill Eris and Keir, she first needs to get rid of that fear.


	41. Chapter 41

## Chapter 41

Getting the Autumn Court into the Alliance is easier than expected. If it had been a Continental country that sold out an emissary to the enemy, it would have taken centuries for any other country to even consider associating with them again. But the Autumn Court is from Prythian, and Prythian has always been an outsider in Continental politics, so Miryam only received a few odd looks for championing its case.

It certainly helped that most of the Alliance members had more important things than a Prythian court changing sides to consider lately. In the past months, they managed to win more and more ground, pushing the Loyalists back further and further and advancing into their territory step by step. Each mile they win is bought in blood, and the Loyalists seem to become more brutal the more desperate they become. Still, the Alliance is moving towards complete victory quickly enough that most of the Fae members deem the time right for the first discussions about what to do after they have won.

Like most humans, Miryam desperately wishes they’d postpone their discussions until after they have _actually_ won. Their new unity is fragile enough as it is, and the last thing Miryam wants is to watch it shatter over another useless argument. Besides, the Fae seem interested only in possible new territory, money and trading rights for them, and Miryam couldn’t care less about that as long as there are still millions of humans living in slavery.

“I believe we are taking the fifth step before the first,” Miryam says not for the first time. “Before we argue about what to do with our defeated enemies or their land, shouldn’t we finish defeating them first? Or we could figure out a way to safely free the humans from slavery.”

She looks around the table, hoping for nods of agreement, but except for Drakon, Zeku and two or three other Fae, most of them seem doubtful. Miryam pushes her disappointment down. The human side of the Alliance has been more unified than ever, but the Fae have been causing trouble lately, pushing back against Miryam’s suggestions more than they ever did. If she could only make them understand that this war isn’t just about power or land or politics, but about _ending slavery_.

“Treaties take time,” Emperor Shey says. He’s the ruler of one of the northern territories and is in the comfortable position of having his country remain mostly untouched by the fighting. “It is best for us to at least begin discussing now so that we can all agree on the terms of surrender we’ll offer the Loyalists.” He nods to Miryam. “And as for the human slaves, their liberation will of course be included in our terms.”

As if it would ever be so easy. No one here seems inclined to discuss what they will do if the Loyalists decide to use their slaves as hostages. She hasn’t heard anyone bring up where they will go after the war, either. Maybe they don’t care. Miryam knows for a fact that Shey doesn’t.

Drakon taps his pencil on the table. He’s been attending more Alliance meetings since discussion shifted towards what would happen after the war. He usually stays out of the political disagreements, but the actual machinations of creating a stable new system are right up his alley. He’s certainly better at it than Miryam, and, as it turns out, also better than several of the other rulers who seem to mostly rely on their advisors for these things.

“Perhaps we should try to centre our efforts around the humans, though,” he says. “We are talking about several million slaves who will get freed. That’s far too many for them to simply disperse into the pre-existing human countries, and I doubt they’ll want to live under Fae rule. Territory lines will need to be redrawn, new countries created. _This_ is what we ought to be discussing first if we truly want to talk about what will happen after the war.”

Miryam could have kissed him. The other human councilmembers seem pleased as well. Drakon is well-liked with them, if only for being one of the few Fae to treat them as equals and actually care about ending slavery. And having a Fae agree with them just makes everything so much _easier_.

“We can’t simply create new territories,” Shey scoffs.

Nakia rolls her eyes, muttering something to Andromache. Her obvious disgust probably isn’t helpful, but certainly understandable. If Miryam wasn’t being watched so closely, she would have spent most of the meeting rolling her eyes.

“Which is why Drakon said that we should start discussing it now,” she says pleasantly. “Do you disagree, Your Excellency?”

Shey clearly does, but he can’t disagree without saying that he doesn’t care what happens to the freed humans after the war. And that would not go over well with the council. For all that many Fae don’t actually care, they certainly like to _pretend_ they do.

“No, of course not.” He inclines his head at Drakon. “Please, go on.”

As Drakon begins to outline the challenge they will be facing once the war is over – enormous, so much bigger than anything Miryam could have imagined – she keeps watching Emperor Shey. Sometimes, she wonders if he remembers her from before the war started. She certainly remembers him.

When Miryam was fourteen, Shey visited the Black Land on a diplomatic mission. She doesn’t remember the exact reason – some trade agreement if she isn’t mistaken – but she does remember Shey, blond-haired and tall, with eyes like shards of ice. She remembers standing behind the high table together with Liki, the newest of Ravenia’s personal slaves. Liki had been Miryam’s age, but he’d seemed endlessly younger and it had been clear from his first day that he wouldn’t last long. (Not that anyone ever did.) Miryam had made sure he would tend to their guests that night, leaving her to Ravenia, hoping he would at least survive the day if she kept him away from the queen who had been in a foul mood that day. She had been wrong.

It had just been a drop of wine spilled on the Emperor’s sleeve. A minor mistake, yet a death warrant for any slave of Ravenia’s. But the queen hadn’t noticed Liki’s mistake, had been busy with her own food. And she wouldn’t have needed to see. If Shey had just let it slide. He had to own hundreds of coats, with money enough for thousands more; the stain should have been nothing to him, but he’d still made a fuss. And so Liki had died.

Miryam remembers how he screamed, how he kept looking at her as he died, like he expected her to save him. She remembers kneeling in the blood, ordered to wipe it away. And she remembers Shey’s cold eyes watching her, not a hint of sympathy or guilt to be found in them.

She looks into those eyes now, power whispering alive inside her, and she is sure that he doesn’t remember that day, doesn’t remember Liki or her. And she despises him for it. Shey meets her gaze and for a moment, Miryam hopes he sees the disgust in her eyes even when her face doesn’t betray anything.

She allows the memory to linger for a moment longer before pushing it away again. She always does it this way – carefully dips her feet into the memories like a child testing the temperature of water, allows herself to feel the anger for a few moments before pushing it away again. She doesn’t want that anger, doesn’t want these memories. They come with a roaring fury, and Miryam doesn’t know what to do with that, can’t reconcile it with the person she wants to be.

Shey is still watching at her, so Miryam gives him a small smile, forcing any coldness out of her eyes. Then, she turns a back to Drakon and starts listening to what he’s telling the council.

After another hour of discussions, they decide that they won’t be able to solve this problem in one sitting and that they’ll bring experts in on the issue. Miryam thanks everyone for their time and gets up. Drakon follows after her.

“Thank you for the help,” Miryam says.

“Sure.” Drakon tugs at his clothes. “Their priorities are really messed up. Discussing what will happen after the war is important, but they focus on all the wrong things.” Miryam nods and Drakon continues, “I’ve been working on a proposal. For what to do after the war, borders and such. I thought we might use it as a starting ground, but I’m not sure if it’s good enough. Would you read over it for me?”

“Of course,” Miryam says.

Why he asks for her help with this is beyond her. She read over a few of his ethical essays already, which did make sense with most of the texts being about slavery. But this isn’t another essay that will be published and spread around the soldiers. _This_ is a proposal for the council outlining a possible way to deal with the aftermath of the war, and Miryam, who never spent a day of her life in school and doesn’t know anything about laws or treaties, is probably the least qualified person to comment on it. He should ask Andromache or Nakia. But if Drakon is nervous about the council’s reaction and having Miryam read the text first, she’ll do it.

Drakon snaps his fingers and a folder with at least fifty pages appears in his hands. Miryam gapes at it.

“When did you _write_ all that?” She asks.

He shrugs. “It was clear from the beginning that the war would end eventually and we’d need a strategy. I started early.”

Miryam shakes her head and takes the papers. “You’re brilliant,” she says lightly. Flips through the pages. “I’ll read this as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.”

Miryam would have liked to talk more about the contents of that proposal, but now, the other councilmembers are beginning to leave the room and Miryam doesn’t really feel like talking to any of them. She hugs Drakon goodbye and makes towards her rooms.

Once there, Miryam closes the door to her office behind herself and leans her back against it, pressing her head against the cool wood. Tasia, who is sitting behind Miryam’s desk, grins at her.

“From the look on your face, I take it the meeting went well?”

Miryam groans and pulls one of the chairs over to sit down on. “If they could at least _pretend_ to care about anything other than themselves.”

Tasia nods to a half-eaten plate that’s carefully balanced on top of a huge stack of papers. On it, a light dinner has been laid out, already half-eaten. “Want some?” They ask, snatching an olive up from the plate. “Food doesn’t exactly solve any problems, but it usually makes them more bearable.” They grin at Miryam. “Unless it’s poisoned. Then, it actually _can_ solve problems.”

Miryam blinks at them, then laughs and takes up a slice of garlic bread. “Remind me to never get on your bad side. I’d never be able to eat again.” She leans against the edge of the table and nods at the paperwork. “Anything important today?”

“Isn’t there always?” Tasia leans back in the chair. “But most of it can wait until tomorrow if you aren’t up to it today.”

“Yes, I think that would be for the best.”

It has less to do with feeling up for it and more with the proposal Drakon prepared for the council. Reading over it will take a while, especially since Miryam rarely understands proposals like this on the first try.

“Smart,” Tasia says. “I think I’ll call it a day soon, too, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Miryam smiles. “And remind your brother to take his medication, yes? His cough won’t get better if he doesn’t.”

“I will.” Tasia gets up, but then, their gaze falls on three envelopes lying on the edge of the table. Thick, expensive paper. “Oh,” they say, picking up the envelopes. “I think these might be important, actually. I haven’t opened them, but they seem to be directly from the respective royal families.”

“Then I better take a look,” Miryam says, frowning down at the letters. She occasionally gets letters from Continental royals. One a day is normal. Two is unusual. Three means trouble.

“Have a nice evening,” she says, managing a smile at Tasia, and slips into her chambers.

Miryam’s room is uncomfortably cold and she kneels down before her stove, trying to light a fire. There is an entire host of servants working in the palace, but Miryam outright refused to let any of them work for her. She spent too long working in a palace and even though she knows all of the servants work here of their own free will and get paid for the jobs, she still couldn’t stomach having any of them look after her room.

As soon as the fire is burning, Miryam sits down on the sofa and pulls a blanket up to her chest. She lights a candle and rips open the first letter. With each word she reads, the knot in her stomach tightens. With numb fingers she opens the next letter. And the next. The same messages, just with slightly different words.

Miryam’s power stirs. Instead of slamming it back down, she tries to sooth it. Gently talks it down until it settles again. Then, she jumps to her feet and stalks over to the door. Four guards are posted outside, and all of them incline their heads when she opens the door.

“Good evening,” Miryam says. “Could one of you please send a messenger to Grand Duke Zeku to tell him that I need to talk to him?”

Zeku arrives quickly. Because of propriety, Miryam waits until he has taken his seat and they both have a cup of tea standing before them before bursting out, “Why did I find official requests to be allowed to _court_ me from three separate Fae royals on my desk today?”

Zeku takes a sip from his tea and leans back in his chair. “I’m surprised that you’re surprised,” he says. “Surely you are aware that should we win this war – which becomes more and more likely with each day – you will be a very profitable match. You’ll hold quite a bit of political power.”

Political power and arrogant Fae be damned. Miryam can’t believe what she is hearing. “And they honestly expect that I would marry them to – what? Advance their political standing?”

Shrugging, Zeku takes another sip of his tea. He seems completely unfazed by the situation, which just agitates Miryam more. “But you can’t ignore the fact that such a match would be beneficial for you as well,” he says, “You are in an extremely difficult situation politically, without an army or any close political alliances. Marrying into one of the Continent’s more influential royal families would give you what you have been lacking: A security net for when this war ends.”

Rationally, Miryam knows that Zeku has a point, but this idea is just completely absurd. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to calm down. She can’t be freaking out like this in front of him.

“But I don’t want to marry any of them,” she says as reasonably as possible, “I barely even know them.” And what she knows, she doesn’t like.

“It’s not like there is a shortage of candidates for you to pick from. I’m sure any Continental family would be happy to have one of their members marry you. Cauldron, _I_ would marry you if you agreed.”

Miryam gapes at him. “I can’t marry you,” she says. It’s completely impossible. For about a million reasons, the least of which being – “You are over five hundred years older than me.” She shakes her head. “That’s…” _Disgusting_ , she wants to say, but she catches herself just in time. There are rules and protocols for these situations and none of them allow for her to be impolite about her refusal. “I am honoured by the offer,” she says carefully. “But you’ll forgive me if a marriage to anyone who is this much older than I am is out of question for me.”

Zeku inclines his head. “Of course,” he says, “And I apologize, I should not have phrased my offer so carelessly. I realize how it may have been misinterpreted, but I can assure you that I have no romantic or sexual interest in you.” He smiles. “I, too, prefer romantic partners who are closer to my own age. But I think your view of political marriages is slightly off.”

“Oh.” Miryam relaxes a little. Zeku accepted her refusal easily enough, he isn’t trying to push her. And he isn’t actually interested in her, it was just politics.

“I’m not sure if you know this,” Zeku says, “but it is common for political marriages to be sealed with a contract defining the terms.” He drains his cup of tea, then refills it. “Now, on the entirely theoretic assumption that you and I decided to marry.”

He pauses to look at Miryam, as if to check how she will take the comment. She nods at him to go on. Now, she’s more curious than upset.

“Well, in that theoretic case, the contract would probably include a clause forbidding any sexual interaction unless explicitly agreed upon by both parties. It would also allow both of us to have as many lovers as we wish. You and any children would be barred from inheriting the throne, although agreements could be made to provide for your children, should you want them.” He says all of that in a completely cool, analytical tone. This truly isn’t about feelings for him. It’s just another contract, another way to seal an alliance. “On the political side, I assume you would receive a certain amount of political power in Sangravah, although you would not have equal power to me. That would be theoretically possible, but you are a bit too inexperienced for me to be comfortable with putting you in charge of my country. You’d be required to spend a certain amount of time in Sangravah for administrative purposes and I’d require you to join me for foreign politics, as I’m sure you guessed, but you could spend the rest of your time wherever you want.”

Miryam nods slowly and takes a sip from her tea. “That’s rather impressive,” she says slowly.

Zeku shrugs. “Honestly, these types of marriages are more like close alliances than romantic unions. Usually, they also include some political benefits for the countries – trading rights, military alliances, something like this.” He taps his fingers against his cup. “I’m surprised Drakon never mentioned it to you.”

Now that Zeku mentions it, it does seem strange to her that she never heard of it. But of course, they don’t talk a lot about his engagement with Ravenia. She knows that he and Jurian discussed it a few times, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement not to mention Ravenia in Miryam’s presence if not absolutely necessary.

“I still don’t want to get married, though,” Miryam says.

Zeku sighs. “I don’t want to be push you on this,” he says, “but I’d still ask you to reconsider. You don’t seem to realize how precarious your situation is. It doesn’t have to be me, but marrying into any Continental royal family is your best shot at getting out of this.”

Miryam wraps her arms around herself and doesn’t answer. The entire discussion makes her skin crawl. Even with a contract protecting her, she hates the idea of such a union.

“You’d have every protection,” Zeku says. “Nearly every freedom.

But that doesn’t matter, none of it does. Because Miryam looks at the Continent’s elaborate marriage contracts, and all she can see is that they look a whole lot like purchase contracts. What Miryam needs is protection, a security net for her political games, and in return for that, she is selling herself.

And she hasn’t come this far just to end up selling herself to another owner.

Maybe it’s stupid, but she doesn’t want to marry any of the people who proposed to her. Not even Zeku. As close as they are as allies, the thought of marrying him terrifies her. Maybe it would be different if it was someone she could imagine spending the rest of her life with, maybe someone she actually loved – if it was Drakon, she doesn’t think she would mind. But it isn’t, and if what her political survival requires is for her to sell herself, then that isn’t worth it.

“If I’m lucky, this war will be over soon and none of this will ever concern me again,” she says, trying to convince herself as much as Zeku. As soon as her people are free, she will disappear from politics. Then, these Fae nobles can go find someone else to marry. If not… She’ll deal with it then. “Either way, I’m going to refuse. Would you read over the letters for me?”

Zeku’s mouth tightens with displeasure, his blue skin seems do darken a few shades, going from the light blue of a cloudless summer sky to the deep, angry colour of a stormy sea. Miryam can’t tell if he’s actually worried on her behalf, or just annoyed at the missed opportunity. She doesn’t doubt that Zeku cares about her in a way – otherwise, she’d never go to him for advice – but she isn’t stupid enough to believe that he has no ulterior motive in helping her. He benefits from their closeness as much as she does, for while his backing gives her some small level of security, being her ally brings him as close to the leadership of the Alliance as he can get in the current political situation. It is entirely possible he had hoped to advance even further by marrying her.

“Of course,” Zeku says. “As you wish.”

\----

“I can’t stay long,” Drakon says as the door closes behind him.

“What a pleasant greeting.” Ghost appears before him. He’s wearing his Black-Land-human look again. Ever since he met Miryam, that seems to be his favoured look.

“Sorry.”

Drakon sits down on the ground and unwraps the lunch he brought along. He is near-certain that having lunch in a sacred cave counts as a direct insult to the Mother, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. If she minds, she can come over here and tell him herself. Maybe blasphemy will do what countless prayers didn’t and get his goddess to care about what’s going on here.

Now that he thinks about it, his frequent meetings with Ghost might have a negative influence on his relationship to his goddess.

“What has you so stressed this time?” Ghost asks.

“There was another attack last night,” Drakon says. Over the past months, he’s grown so used to talking to Ghost that any awkwardness vanished long ago. “Three hundred dead.” He rubs a hand over his face and looks down at his food. He’s been up since two in the morning and hasn’t had anything to eat yet, but he finds he isn’t hungry at all. “And I have to be in Telique for an Alliance meeting in less than an hour. It’s about that proposal I told you about.”

And once he’s done with the council, he’ll probably get an earful from Sinna for slipping his guards again. They’ve gotten into arguments over that several times already. Sinna thinks him reckless for continuously going out without guards, and Drakon can’t explain to her where he’s going.

“You go to Alliance meetings?” Ghost asks.

Drakon makes a face at him. “Funny,” he mutters.

But he has to admit that he probably went to more council meetings in the last month than the entire rest of the war. Now that they are discussing subjects he’s comfortable with, the meetings are far more bearable. A few of the other royals actually seem to respect him. At least a little bit.

“How is Miryam?” Ghost asks.

“Well.” Drakon grins. “Arguing around with the council, but what’s new? She’s getting better at dealing with her powers, though.”

“Good to hear.” Ghost disappears and reappears in a sitting position facing Drakon. “And the two of you? Still as close?”

“Yes,” Drakon says and feels his face heat. For some reason, Ghost is fascinated with both Miryam and their relationship. The interest in Miryam, he understands, but it makes Drakon somewhat uncomfortable that he keeps asking after their relationship.

Especially because Drakon has a hard time answering. Something has changed between Miryam and him in the last months, but he can’t quite explain what it is. They’ve certainly grown closer, but there is also something different, something new between them. He hasn’t dared to mention it to Miryam out of fear that she doesn’t feel the same way, but he is sure that there is something.

It’s just so confusing. He knows he loves her, but he isn’t entirely sure if he’s also _in love_ with her. Either way, he’d never dare to talk to her about it.

“Don’t worry,” Ghost says, “I won’t ask.” He grins. “Besides, I’m probably the last person who should try to meddle in anyone’s relationships.”

“What do you mean?” Drakon asks, frowning. Ghost keeps making hints at what can only be his life, but he never says anything concrete.

“Just that my track record when it comes to falling in love isn’t the best,” Ghost says in a tone that makes it clear he won’t talk further on it.

Drakon nods and looks down at his uneaten food. He won’t have time to eat it now, he has to be off to the council. The other members are only just beginning to accept him, and he doesn’t want to squander that by turning up late. Sighing, he gets up, but Ghost calls him back.

“Before you go,” he says, “There’s something you should know about.”

Drakon doesn’t think he can take any more bad news today. “What is it?” He asks.

“There has been trouble with the wards lately,” Ghost says. “I haven’t been able to truly look into it since I’m stuck in this cave, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Are you going to elaborate on that, or do I need to guess?”

Ghost doesn’t seem to care about the dire circumstances and grins at him. “Actually, hearing your guesses might be fun. But no.” He gives one of his shrugs. It’s no longer quite as jerky as it was in the beginning, like the motion becomes smoother with practice. “I can’t really tell what’s the problem with the wards, though, or which ones are affected” he says. “They might simply be old. After several millennia without being checked, even the best wards are bound to give out eventually.”

_Shit_. The wards are all that’s protecting Cretea, keeping the sword save. There are several layers, but if just one of them falls, there will be serious trouble. At worst, anyone could winnow on the island or get on via boat. But even if those wards remained intact, Cretea might still become visible or trackable. This is a nightmare.

“Almost ten millennia,” Drakon says softly. “These wards have held for almost ten millennia and they have to break in the middle of the most violent war of the past three centuries?”

This has got to be some kind of sick joke. He must have done something to offend some kind of higher power, causing it to try making his life as terrible as possible.

Drakon doesn’t allow himself to contemplate what it might mean if the wards are truly eroding. He isn’t a witcher and has no affinity towards spells, he won’t even be able to find out what’s wrong with the wards, much less fix any problems. He can only wait and pray – although the latter hasn’t helped with any of his other problems yet, so he doubts it will work this time.

\----

Lying on her back on her couch, head in Mor’s lap, Andromache looks up at the ceiling of her room in Telique. She just spent the past three hours sitting through another council meeting and her head hurts.

“How was the meeting?” Mor asks. She wasn’t allowed to join since her uncle chose to participate himself.

Andromache shrugs. “Endless discussions, as always. Drakon’s proposal was good, though.”

Mor nods. “Yeah, I read it. I doubt the Loyalists will like giving up parts of their territories to form new human countries.”

Andromache shrugs. On the list of her priorities, the Loyalits’ emotions aren’t exactly high up. She turns to Miryam, who sits in one of the armchairs with her knees drawn up to her chest. “You were unusually quiet during the discussions, though. Is everything alright?”

She still feels bad for not asking that more often before the wall spell, and she certainly isn’t about to make the same mistake again.

Miryam shrugs. “Sure.”

It doesn’t sound convincing. “You never stay out of discussions,” she says.

“The subject isn’t really my strong suit,” Miryam says lightly. Andromache and Mor both frown at her and Miryam shrugs. “If you must know, most of these discussions require some kind of prior education. Which I don’t have. And I don’t really want to embarrass myself in front of the entire Continental leadership, so I thought it would be smarter to stay out of it.”

Oh. Andromache bites her lip. She never really considered that, and from the look on her face, Mor didn’t, either. Miryam seems so at ease amongst all these royals that it is easy to forget that she wasn’t raised as nobility.

Miryam shrugs again. “Doesn’t really matter,” she says. “Drakon is good enough at this that no one will notice if I’m not as long as I manage to cover the political part without making any big mistakes.”

Andromache frowns. That strategy seems a bit too risky to her and she’s about to say as much, but Mor already jumped on to a completely different line of thought.

“What’s up with you and Drakon, anyways?” she asks.

“The same as in the last five years,” Miryam says a bit too quickly. “We’re friends.”

Andromache looks up at Mor, who grins back at her, and sits up. “Really?” She asks, leaning forward.

Mor brought up the idea that Miryam and Drakon could get together months ago already. At first, Andromache laughed it off, but lately, it seemed far more likely. Her and Mor aren’t the only ones to have noticed, either. If she isn’t mistaken, there is quite a bit of money to be had with betting on if (or when) the two of them will get together.

“It’s complicated,” Miryam says, but she refuses to look at either of them.

Mor throws her hands up in the air, shaking her head. “How is this complicated, Miryam? I know your life has a tendency to be difficult by definition, but Cauldron damnit, you are in the comfortable situation where both of the options you have are good. All you need to do is choose.”

Miryam tugs at her hair and looks away. Andromache grins. Teasing Miryam about her possible feelings for Drakon is probably the most normal conversation they’ve had in weeks.

“Mor’s right,” Andromache says. “Drakon seems perfectly content to be your best friend if that’s what you want. So at this point, it really boils down to you deciding if you are interested in a relationship or not.”

Miryam tugs her knees closer to her chest. She turns to Mor. “Did you hear from your friends lately?” She asks with exaggerated innocence. “I haven’t heard from Rhys or any of the others in a while.”

Andromache and Mor exchange a look – and both of them burst out laughing. “Really?” Andromache asks, grinning. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

Miryam grins back. “Does it work?” She asks.

“Yep.” Mor jumps to her feet and takes a bottle of wine out of a cupboard. Plopping back down on the couch. “I ran into Az two weeks ago and he says the others are fine,” she says and jumps straight into a summary of the latest news she got from Azriel.

A servant brings them dinner and Andromache and Mor slowly work their way through the wine. As the evening goes on, the mood relaxes further and further. It is almost midnight when Miryam suddenly tenses in her seat, fingers gripping the edges of her chair. She obviously tries to keep her focus on Mor and Andromache, but her eyes keep flickering to something behind them. Andromache doesn’t think Mor notices anything except for Miryam being a little skittery, but Andromache knows enough to suspect what’s going on. She knows for sure when Miryam yawns a few times, then excuses herself claiming to be tired.

Andromache jumps to her feet. “I’ll walk you to your room,” she says. “There’s still something we need to discuss about the meeting, anyways.”

“Right.” Mor leans back into her cushions. “I, for one, had quite enough of politics for the day, so I’ll be staying here.” She grins over at Andromache and waves a wine bottle at her. “If you still want some of that wine, you better hurry.”

Andromache smiles at her over her shoulder and follows Miryam out of the room. As soon as the door has closed behind them, her smile fades. Still, she waits until they are in Miryam’s room, door safely closed between them and any listeners, before saying a word.

“You okay?” She asks.

“Sure,” Miryam says, but there’s a hint of tightness in her voice.

“Oh yeah?” Andromache crosses her arms and glares at her. “Back to that shit again, are we?”

Miryam glares right back. “I’ve got it under control.”

“You said that once already. Remember how it ended?”

Andromache certainly remembers. She still has nightmares about it sometimes. Miryam thrashing on the ground, screaming at horrors of her own imagination, is not something she ever wants to see again.

“Yes, I do.” Miryam pulls of her shoes and neatly puts them into the corner. “And do you think it was pleasant for me? Or that I want it to happen again?”

Andromache sighs and stops glaring. Being angry at Miryam simply because she is worried about her is the opposite of helpful. From personal experience, Andromache can tell that it never helps to push another person into a corner. Especially with Miryam, who isn’t the most open person on a good day.

“Sorry,” she says, even though she doesn’t really think she needs to apologize. “But tensions in the Alliance are running higher again, and if you are having trouble, I need you to tell me.”

“It’s the first time in six weeks.”

The only problem is, Andromache can’t tell if she’s telling the truth or not. With Miryam, it’s hard to tell. It’s not that she wants to die – quite the contrary, if Andromache isn’t mistaken – but she wouldn’t hesitate to choose the war over her life.

“I’m careful,” Miryam says. “What happened after I cast that spell won’t happen again.”

_And if it does happen again, I’ll tell the council. And if they think you’re going insane, you’ll be out of your position and none of your excuses will be able to help you._ Andromache doesn’t say that, though, if only because it would be the surest way to keep Miryam from ever telling her anything again. And if she’s being honest, also because it’s an empty threat. She wouldn’t have Miryam kicked out of the council, not in this precarious situation and not without having a replacement for her.

Maybe she should stop blaming Miryam for being willing to sacrifice herself for this. After all, she would do the same.

“Alright,” she says. “I’d still like to get some of that wine, so I’ll be going back to Mor.”

\----

Miryam spent the entire night lying awake in bed, considering what Andromache, Mor and her talked about. Close to the morning, she finally made her choice.

“I think we should talk,” she says.

Drakon and her are sitting on a flat stone by a lake’s edge somewhere in central Erithia, dipping their toes into the water. A swarm of rainbow-colored fishes is swimming around Miryam’s feet, occasionally dipping their noses against her feet.

“Sounds serious,” Drakon says. He leans forward to run his fingers through the water.

“Kind of.” She shrugs awkwardly. “Not really. It’s just…” She stumbles over the words, then decides on the direct approach. “Are you in love with me?”

Drakon freezes, which really is answer enough for the question. It _also_ makes it beyond clear that she should not have been this direct about it. She opens her mouth to say something else, somehow soften her words and make it clear that there isn’t a problem, but Drakon is quicker.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “That’s… Ah, Cauldron damnit.” He starts drumming a hectic rhythm on his leg. “I didn’t mean to…”

No, Miryam really shouldn’t have approached it like this. “No no, it’s alright. I wasn’t trying to, well.”

Damnit. She really dug that grave herself, didn’t she? Maybe she should have tried thinking about how to approach that conversation with Drakon instead of just focusing of if she was going to approach him about it.

Either way, her words seem to calm Drakon. At least a little bit. “I’m not even sure if I’m actually… Fuck.” He sighs. “I enjoy spending time with you. I miss you when you’re not around, there’s no one better to talk to. I love you, I really do. I’m just not entirely sure if I love you that way.” He changes the rhythm to something that’s a bit slower. “Kiko brought up the idea, but I’m not entirely sure. It’s difficult to tell, you know?”

Yes, she understands that all too well. “How did you know with Kiko?” She asks.

“Oh.” Drakon smiles. “That was completely different. I actually got a crush on him before we became friends.” He shrugs. “He was… easy to fall in love with. A year older than me, and far more outgoing. We were both in our first year in university and I thought he’d never notice me.”

Miryam nods. She doesn’t think she could fall in love with someone without truly knowing them first. She certainly never felt any kind of attraction towards a stranger.

“I know I should have told you,” Drakon says softly, “But I didn’t want to make things awkward. I’m perfectly happy to be your friend.”

Yes, Miryam really started this conversation the wrong way. Apparently, her talent for handling situations doesn’t extend to her private life.

“I wasn’t trying to blame you for this,” she says softly. “Quite the contrary, actually.”

Drakon looks somewhat relived. The rhythm he’s drumming slows further.

“But things between us have changed in the last months,” Miryam continues. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” Drakon says carefully. Now, it seems it’s up to Miryam to takes the next step.

“Well, what I was trying and failing to say earlier,” she says with an awkward smile, “is that I think I might also be in love with you.”

Drakon freezes. “What?” He asks softly.

Miryam bites her lower lip. No wonder that he’s surprised. She is, too. It’s been less than half a year since she broke up with Jurian, and here she is, already in love with another.

“I’m not sure if it will work, of course,” she says, thinking of Jurian. “But I thought we should at least talk about it. Decide if we want to give it a try.”

“You’d like to give it a try?” Drakon echoes. He still sounds stunned, but then, he seems to catch himself. He buries his face in his hands. “Right. Please pretend that I said something charming or at least remotely intelligent instead.”

Miryam laughs nervously. “For what it’s worth, I believe my opening question was what started the entire problem.”

Drakon looks up and grins. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry.” Miryam grins back. She wonders if they should kiss now, but neither of them makes a move. She hesitates. “If it doesn’t work out between us, we’ll still be friends, right?”

“Of course,” Drakon says without hesitation. “You’re my best friend, I wouldn’t ever want to lose that.”

Miryam smiles. Slowly, she reaches for his hand and intertwines their fingers. Drakon squeezes her hand.

“So we’re together now?” He asks.

“Yes.” Miryam grins. She pauses, thinking of the public reaction this might cause. “Would you mind if we didn’t make it public for the moment, though? You can tell Sinna and Nephelle, of course, but if we could keep this out of the public for a while…”

“Of course,” Drakon says, sobering up. “Everything is terrible enough for Jurian already. If he finds out that we’re together now, that will just make it worse.”

Miryam nods, feeling a stab of guilt at the thought. Especially because her first concern hadn’t been Jurian, but rather the public. She already had one relationship where the entire world watched and every little detail fuelled camp gossip all around the Continent. If she announced a relationship with Drakon now, the public interest would be at least as big, if not bigger, and adding that pressure to their relationship from the beginning is the last thing Miryam wants.

What they have is so precious, and it seems so fragile. And it belongs solely to the two of them, no one else. And Miryam will be damned if she allows the world to ruin this for her.


	42. Chapter 42

## Chapter 42

Two months after Miryam and Drakon decided to attempt a relationship, they are sitting are sitting in Miryam’s drawing room together with Andromache and Zeku. Miryam and Drakon share a seat on the couch while Zeku and Andromache each took one of the armchairs. Between them, papers lie strewn out over a table. They are preparing for the meeting tomorrow, coordinating their opinions and making sure that they all agree on what to do any say.

The four of them are the usual group for meetings like this. Miryam is obviously there, although not in her function as de-facto leader of the Alliance, but as leader of their fraction. (Officially, there are no fractions in the Alliance, but in reality, they very much exist. Miryam’s is the biggest, consisting of all the humans – at least since she put her quarrel with Nakia aside – as well as those Fae who actually care about equality.) Andromache is there for the humans (not technically their leader, but while Scythia under Nakia is in charge of the military, Andromache spearheads politics) and Zeku for the Fae (not their leader at all, but closest to Miryam). Drakon isn’t there to represent anyone, but he wrote the proposal they are discussing, which means he has been invited to these meetings lately.

What they are discussing today is the sixth draft of Drakon’s original proposal, and somehow, he doubts that it will be the last one. They keep quarrelling over territory lines and new power positions, discussing the same points over and over again. By now, they have at least agreed that each of the Loyalist territories will be forced to yield part of their territory proportionally to the human population, allowing the humans to form independent territories. Other points are less secure.

“Why are there no reparations specified in that contract?” Zeku asks.

“There are,” Drakon says, “Section three. Each freed slave is allowed to take as much they can carry from their owner’s household. And there will be trials for atrocities the enemies committed.”

Miryam shifts through her copy of the proposal. She is leaning against Drakon, he has an arm around her shoulders. In the beginning, they were hesitant about how much affection they could show in public, with only Andromache, Mor, Sinna and Nephelle knowing the truth, but by now, they are nearly certain that no one notices anything strange about their behaviour. (“What did you expect?” Nephelle asked, laughing, when he mentioned it to her. “You two were close enough already that the difference is near-impossible to notice.”)

“Yes, sure.” Zeku picks up a grape from the plate. “But what about reparations paid to the winner? It is common for the defeated party to somehow compensate the other side for the costs of war.”

Drakon sighs. He knew this would come, knew the Fae especially would likely disagree. “There hasn’t been a war of a comparable scale in millennia,” he says. “The entire Continent is in ruin. If we force the Loyalist countries to pay for this, we’ll bankrupt them for centuries.”

Neither Miryam nor Andromache look particularly disturbed at the thought. Andromache shrugs. “So what? Much as I appreciate your generosity, I don’t particularly care if the Loyalists have economic problems after this.”

“You will if you consider the long-term consequences,” Drakon says. He sincerely hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s defending the Loyalists. “I’m not saying this out of sympathy for the ither side, but because I don’t want us to get dragged into another war in a few decades or centuries.”

Zeku frowns at him. “Aren’t you exaggerating a little there? This has been common practice for millennia.”

“And every time the victor when too far, another war was the consequence . Take Akele and Merin,” he says, referring to two territories on the western Continent that have been locked in war for just over a thousand years. It all started when Akele defeated Merin in war and bled the country dry for compensation.

He looks around at the others. “The Loyalists’ economy is built around slavery – without it, it will struggle. If we add huge debts to that, it will collapse entirely.” He looks to Andromache and Miryam, who don’t seem upset at all. “I realize that this may not feel like a bad thing – even I would like to see them pay, and I have far less cause than you do. But any satisfaction this might bring won’t last, because if we do this, we’ll never have true peace. We will need constant military presence in the former Loyalist countries, we will have to keep them down for eternity. Because the moment we relax our guard, they will strike back.”

Miryam and Andromache exchange another look. Now, they do seem concerned. Zeku presses his lips together and looks down at his fingers.

“That won’t be easily sold to the Fae,” he warns.

“Or the humans,” Andromache adds.

Miryam frowns. “Are you sure about this?” She asks.

Drakon considers for a moment, then nods. “We can’t push the Loyalists completely to the ground,” he says. “If we abolish slavery and then let them all fall into poverty, they will always wish to go back to the times before this war. There will be no moving on.”

“It isn’t just the economy, though,” Andromache says. “It’s not like they enslave us out of necessity – “ Drakon flinches and she shakes her head. “Don’t look at me like that, I know that wasn’t what you were saying. But still. The problem is that they think us lesser. And that won’t change if we allow them to keep their economy.”

Yes, Drakon knows this. But finding a way to end bigotry that has been festering in Fae society for millennia seems nearly impossible. He’s just over thirty years old, and he’s expected to solve a millennia-old problem? All he can do is identify the biggest possible pitfalls and try to find solutions, but he has no way of knowing if those will actually _work_. It’s not ideal, but he doesn’t know another way to approach this than to work step by step.

“Humans will have their own countries,” he says. “If we manage to establish that as the status quo, it will be a solid first step. Then we work on establishing trade between the human and Fae countries. Trading partners rarely attack each other – it isn’t good for the economy. And trade always brings countries and people closer together.”

Many of the Loyalists, of course, wouldn’t be pleased by the idea of trading with the humans. But that’s another thing they agreed upon – the Loyalist countries would be put under Alliance administration for the time being. Rulers would need to be replaced with ones more open to the new course, and the Alliance would maintain a presence until things had stabilized.

Miryam flips through the pages of Drakon’s proposal. “There’s also the section about adding a clause to Continental law that allows full legal protection to all humans,” she says. “We’d just need to find a way to get that law put into action, but otherwise, it should help.”

Zeku nods. He has opened his copy and is studying the lines, frowning. Drakon pours himself a glass of water and takes a sip. These discussions are nerve-wracking. It’s entirely different from having to work out a text for university and then discussing it with the other students. Then, it was only about a grade, maybe his father’s approval. Now, it’s the entire continent at stake. Miryam takes his hand and squeezes, smiling at her.

“I know this isn’t entirely the subject,” Zeku says without looking up from the paper, “But would it be possible to include lesser faeries in that law?”

Drakon bites back a curse. Of course, how could he forget about that? When he was still in university, most of the essays he wrote were about the situation faeries face, especially in countries like Montesere. But now, his focus was entirely on the humans – enough that he forgot about the second group of people who aren’t treated as equal on the Continent.

“Don’t they have legal protection already?” Andromache asks.

Zeku shakes his head. “Not in general Continental law. It’s up to their countries to decide which rights they have, but outside of that, the situation is unclear.”

Andromache frowns. “But aren’t you and Drakon…” She pauses. “Can I say ‘lesser faeries’? It sounds disrespectful.”

“I believe that’s the point,” Zeku says drily. His blue skin darkens considerably. “But if you’d like to avoid that, you can simply say ‘faeries’.”

Andromache nods. “Okay. So, you’re both faeries, not High Fae. You’re still royalty.”

“We’re similar enough in power and looks that they don’t mind us as much,” Zeku says. Drakon nods in confirmation.

Privilege on the Continent has always been largely tied to power. Humans don’t have any, High Fae have the most. Most faeries lie somewhere in between, powerful in their own rights, but with abilities that are largely tied to the land and far more specific than those of the High Fae. Both Drakon’s and Zeku’s people have strong elemental powers, though – more High Fae-like – and most people simply pretend they are High Fae.

“I’ll include something,” Drakon says.

He can’t believe he didn’t think of it himself. He knows about the issues faeries face all over the Continent as well as Zeku does. Both Sangravah and Erithia have laws that grant faeries equal rights and, consequently, far larger faerie populations than most other countries.

“We can include that?” He asks, turning to Miryam and Andromache. “Right?”

“Sure,” Andromache says. “Wouldn’t do for us to win this war and abolish slavery only for these asshole High Fae to turn around and enslave a different species.”

Miryam looks down at the proposal and smiles. “If we get this to work,” she says, “we’re truly going to change the world.”

\----

Mor runs a hand through her hair. She spent most of the day sitting in her tent in Andromache’s camp, looking through a book her uncle’s servants dug up from somewhere inside the Hewn City. Ever since the High Lord mentioned the possible uses of her gift to her, she tried to find out as much as possible about it.

Unfortunately, most of the texts regarding the Morrigan powers belong to the private collection of Mor’s family, meaning her father, and ancient contracts forbid even the High Lord from accessing those and the last Morrigan died over a century before Mor was born, and as far as mor knows, he didn’t have any special abilities either.

 _Truth is deadly,_ Mor reads, _Truth is freedom. Truth can break and mend and bind._ The author, Mor has decided, has an unfortunate flair for being dramatic and overly poetic instead of helpful. Pages upon pages and not a single solid explanation of what Mor’s powers do, much less how they are used.

“Stupid book,” Mor mutters and closes it.

“I don’t understand why you’re so fascinated by this,” Andromache says. She’s lying on her stomach on Mor’s bed, papers strewn out over the pillow before her.

“Wouldn’t you be fascinated if you found out you might be in possession of powers like these?”

Andromache purses her lips and shrugs. “No.”

“No?” Mor echoes. “Not even a little bit?”

“No.” Andromache picks up a letter and starts methodically ripping it apart. “Humans don’t have powers, and I, for my part, am perfectly content with it.”

Mor frowns. She heard this philosophy from quite a few humans already, but she never quite believed it. It always seemed more like the kind of thing people would say to console themselves over the fact that they don’t have any magic.

“Besides,” Andromache continues, “I have yet to meet a person who was overly powerful and happy with it. Discounting complete assholes like Artax, obviously.”

“Rhys isn’t unhappy,” Mor says, “And Miryam isn’t either.”

Andromache makes a noise that might be interpreted as agreement, but she remains silent. She turns her attention to the next letter and starts ripping it apart as well.

“And now you want to be like Miryam?” She asks. She still sounds sceptical, not at al like she’s pleased with Mor’s plans.

Mor shrugs. She obviously doesn’t want to be exactly like Miryam. But she genuinely cannot see what is so wrong with wanting to be similar, especially when it comes to power. Who _wouldn’t_ want that? Miryam is untouchable. Everyone likes and respects her. She can walk into the Night Court and simply get a girl like Mor out of there without any consequences. That is what power gets you. If Mor had power, she would not only be safe, but also able to help others.

But maybe Andromache truly doesn’t see it. She’s a queen, after all. She never was as powerless as Mor.

“I simply don’t understand this,” Andromache pushes when Mor remains silent. At least she doesn’t say ´I don’t understand _you_ `. “I’ve never known you to care about power.”

Mor crosses her arms. Somehow, Andromache makes her feel like she’s done something wrong when she really hasn’t. “Maybe I just want to know what I’m capable of.”

Andromache swings her legs over the edge of the bed and gets up. “Then do that,” she says. “Just make sure you don’t end up finding more than you wanted to. Or playing directly into what your uncle wants.” She walks over to Mor and kisses her briefly before making for the exit. “I need to deal with a few problems,” she says. “Good luck with your researches.”

“Thanks,” Mor mutters, looking after her as she walks out of the tent.

She presses her lips together. They didn’t argue, not exactly, but she still feels like Andromache is somehow upset with her. Mor doesn’t want her to be upset, but at the same time, she doesn’t see what she was doing wrong. When Miryam was looking into her powers, no one told her not to. Why is it different for Mor?

Scowling, she looks down at the book. This certainly isn’t going to help her. She had considered asking Miryam for advice, but after Andromache’s reaction, she doesn’t feel confident in that strategy anymore. This leaves her to figure out how to handle her powers on her own.

No books and no help to be had. That means all that’s left is trial-and-error.

\----

“What are you so annoyed about?” Yanis asks as they walk together through the camp.

“I’m not annoyed,” Andromache mutters, even though she technically is.

“Sure you are,” Yanis says. “I’m your best friend – you think I don’t notice?”

Andromache smiles and swats at his arm. Unfortunately, Yanis really does know her well enough that he’s impossible to lie to. They’ve been friends since their childhood, both children of advisors to the last queen, who later picked Andromache to be her successor. Yanis joined the royal guard, which means that now, a few years down the line, he is one of her guards.

“I had an…” Not an argument, not quite. “A disagreement with Mor.”

She doesn’t even know why she is this angry with Mor. Maybe it’s because she keeps thinking of how much Miryam struggles with her powers and can’t fathom the sheer _stupidity_ of anyone wanting that for themselves.

Or maybe it’s because Mor’s entire approach to the situation is so distinctly _Fae_ , wanting power for power’s sake, only to further their own standing. If she at least said that she was trying to get more powerful so that she could help them win this war, Andromache might have accepted it, but Mor just seemed to want power, and maybe Andromache is simply too human to understand that.

“Oh.” Yanis makes a face. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Andromache quietly shakes her head. She usually tells Yanis everything that’s going on in her life. He even knows about her relationship with Mor, by virtue of being the one who is currently pretending to be her lover to cover for them. But this is not her secret alone, and she doesn’t even know if Mor is comfortable with other people hearing about it.

“So, do you want to do anything to take your mind off the matter?” Yanis asks. “We could go sparring.”

“I’d love to, but I need to visit Jurian.”

Ever since Jurian stopped talking to Miryam, Andromache made a point to visit him at least once a week. Miryam makes sure his camp keeps running smoothly, and Andromache does her best to keep Jurian company. These days, she seems to be the only one whose company he can stomach. It isn’t always easy with him, but there’s no way Andromache is going to abandon him entirely. (And really, who of them can claim to be _easy_ to be around these days?)

“I’ll winnow us,” Yanis says.

Yanis is exactly one eighth Fae. Physically, there’s no hint of his ancestors except for ears that are perhaps a bit more pointed than normal, and except for the ability to winnow, he has inherited none of their magical powers. The ability to winnow comes in very handy, though. Now, he winnows both of them to the outskirts of Jurian’s camp.

“I’ll go talk to Xeni,” he says when they arrive, naming one of Jurian’s higher-ranking captains.

“Meet you back here in an hour?” Andromache asks and waves at one of soldiers whom she knows briefly from another visit.

Yanis nods and they both set off. Jurian isn’t in his tent, which Andromache takes as a good sign. The days when Jurian is sitting alone in his tent, staring at his maps or drinking, are usually the worst. When he’s out in his camp and doing things, it generally means that he’s having a good day. (Occasionally, it also means that he’s having a terrible day and everyone else is about to as well.)

She finds Jurian sitting at a table with his soldiers, which is definitely a good sign. He looks tired, bloodshot eyes sunken deep into his face, but he’s talking. When he sees Andromache, he smiles, which is a rare sight these days, and waves her over. One of his soldiers quickly moves aside to make place for her on the bench.

“How’s it going?” Jurian asks. He even sounds somewhat cheerful.

Andromache smiles back. “Can’t complain.”

One of the soldiers passes her a mug of ale and Andromache takes it, thanking him. She isn’t overly fond of ale, but she still takes a sip, wincing at the bitter taste.

“And you?” Andromache asks. “Things look pleasantly calm here.”

“Oh, but they aren’t,” Jurian says. He sounds satisfied with himself. “We only got back here a few hours ago. We spent the past two days chasing after Amarantha’s army. We finally caught on to them earlier today and managed quite the ambush. Four hundred of her soldiers dead, can you imagine?”

“That’s great,” Andromache says, but her smile soon fades.

She does her best to remember the assignments for the individual armies, but she can’t quite drag up the memory. Miryam always knows the exact orders for each commander by heart, but Andromache has been less involved in the matter lately. Still, she is _sure_ that Jurian’s army had gotten orders that don’t align with running after Amarantha. (As a matter of fact, Jurian’s orders rarely ever give him free reign to do as he pleases when it comes to Amarantha anymore. Andromache never asked, but she strongly suspects that Miryam is behind it.)

“Hold on,” she says slowly. Now, she does remember what orders Jurian had. “Weren’t you meant to keep watch on Vallahan’s army? To make sure they don’t move east.”

Jurian’s slight frown confirms her suspicions. “We’ve been keeping an eye out for them for days,” he says, shrugging. “They haven’t moved.”

Andromache stares at him for a moment. She is about to yell at him, to tell him what he was thinking, going against orders like that, but then, she remembers the soldiers sitting around them. Jurian is their commander and a councilmember, they hold the same rank – she can’t lecture him in front of his soldiers like he’s a wilful child.

“Of course,” Andromache says with a forced smile. “Congratulations on your victory, that’s great news.” She takes another sip of her ale. “And you’re right about Vallahan’s army, too. I’m sure you sent scouts out to check on them, we’d know by now if they had moved.”

Jurian nods hastily, but from the frantic look in his eyes, he hasn’t heard back from his scouts yet. Andromache tries hard to conceal her ire. She knows Jurian is struggling and that his revenge against Amarantha is all that keeps him going these days. Being angry with him for that always seemed unfair, but it is very hard not to when he keeps putting his private revenge before the war effort.

They sit together for another couple of minutes, chatting idly with the soldiers. Their conversation gets interrupted by a panting man who stops next to Jurian and whispers something into his ear. His eyes widen.

“What is it?” Andromache asks. Now, she can’t quite keep the edge out of her voice.

“Vallahan’s army has been spotted,” Jurian says. “They…” He clears his throat. “They slipped past our defences and are now moving east. Towards your camp.”

Andromache stares at him for a moment, then jumps to her feet. She doesn’t even bother to yell at Jurian who is still staring at her wide-eyed before she rushes out of the camp.

\----

Mor stares out at the army stretching out before her, panting. There is blood splattered all over her golden armour, blood in her hair, on her hands. A sword cut through a slit in the armour on her arm, but she barely feels the sting of the wound. She takes a swig out of a waterskin. Only a moment of pause, then she will need to head back into the fray where Andromache is still fighting.

They are losing. Reinforcements won’t be here for another few hours, and by then, Mor isn’t sure how many of them will be left. They need a miracle. Or a very, very powerful magic-wielder, but none of the ones they have on their side turned up yet.

 _It was said that she could see the truth about anything in this world, that she could make the proudest Fae beg for mercy in the blink of an eye, and destroy entire armies._ The power to destroy an army would come in handy now. If only Mor knew _how_.

Truth. How does one wield _truth_ in battle?

One attempt, that’s all Mor will spare before she returns to the battle. She closes her eyes and tries to feel the power inside her. She already used it, at least fractions of it, but there must be more and now, Mor goes looking for the core.

She is just about to give up when she finally finds it. The power feels strangely cold and a shiver runs through Mor’s body. The power slips her grasp, though. It keeps slipping away from her, remaining just outside of her reach.

“Come on,” Mor hisses through clenched teeth.

This power is hers. _Hers_. It doesn’t get to refuse her, certainly not in a moment like this. There are people relying on her. She reaches out, stretches her mind to the point where it strains. A cold spreads from her fingers and all over her body. It feels like she is drenched in cold water. Her power feels like ice, cold and unforgiving. Is scares Mor as it shoots through her, but there is still an army for her to contend with.

Mor grips her power tightly. It is there, filling her entirely, but she doesn’t know what to do with it. She never learned to use it against anyone, has no idea how to weaponize a power that seems entirely harmless.

 _Out,_ she orders, _attack them._ Her power trembles inside her body for a moment longer. Then, miraculously, it goes shooting towards the enemy soldiers. Mor can feel it, rushing out of her and towards the enemy army. Then, her vision turns grey. A crack echoes through her mind. She feels herself falling, falling and falling. She should have hit the ground by now, but still, she falls. Then, the voice starts speaking.

 _Morrigan,_ it whispers. No, it isn’t one voice but several, speaking all at once. _Morrigan, you call for truth and you will receive it._

Mor tries to struggle, to fight her way out of the darkness she is caught in, but her power keeps a tight grip on her. This is all wrong. It was meant to attack the enemy, not her.

 _But you so love to lie to yourself_ , the voices continue. _You lie when you tell yourself that your cousin is different from your uncle. You lie when you tell yourself that this little family you made for yourself is so close that nothing could tear it apart._

“No,” Mor whispers. Her head is throbbing and her heart beats far too quickly. “No, stop.”

Before her eyes, images rise. She sees Rhys, standing in his army’s camp, whip in hand. A soldier is bound to the flock below him and Rhys’s face is frozen in clod rage as he swings the whip. _He’ll be no better than his father_ , the voice whispers.

 _And Azriel…_ His face appears before her eyes, always impassive. _Deep down, you know he won’t be willing to move on. And if he ever finds out the truth… You know how he’ll react. He wants you, will always want you. You’re the symbol for the acceptance he always wanted, and he’ll never accept that he can’t have you._

Azriel’s face vanishes from before her and she is standing in a room with Andromache. They are kissing, embracing each other, but they aren’t alone. Shadows lurk in the corner, shadows like the ones that report to Azriel. Her skin crawls like there are thousands of ants running over her body. She’s being watched, always watched.

 _When he finds out,_ the voices continue, _your secret will come out. He’ll tell Azriel and Rhysand, and eventually, everyone will know._

She’s standing opposite Azriel in a room. He is yelling and even though she doesn’t hear the words, she knows what he is saying. There are people standing around them, watching. Keir is there. Eris. Her uncle.

“Stop,” Mor sobs, “Please!”

But it doesn’t stop. _And you lie to yourself when you tell yourself that you and Andromache will be together forever. She won’t want to be with you forever, not when your opinions differ so much. Eventually, she will realize that you are no less privileged than the other Fae. That you may care for humans and all the things she values, but not nearly as deeply as she does. She will realize that deep down, you don’t_ understand _, and she will leave._

“This isn’t what it’s like, I’m not like that!”

 _But you are,_ the voice says. _You joined the war as a way to get out of the Night Court. You genuinely think that many of the humans have it easier than you do. You like to split your world into good and bad, and everyone who isn’t actively horrible is bad, everyone else is good._

“No!” Mor screams. She tears at her hair, struggles against her power’s invisible hold on her.

 _I am truth,_ the power whispers, _You cannot escape me._

Mor screams without words. She wants this to stop, wants the voice to go away. She claws at her head, but something stops her hands.

And just like this, it is all gone. Mor’s power snaps back into her. It quivers in her for a moment, then dissolves into nothing. Pain flares through her head.

“Mor!” Someone is shaking her. “Morrigan, look at me.”

Mor blinks. Slowly, the world comes into focus around her. Andromache’s face appears before her, blurry at first, then more clearly.

“Hey,” Mor mutters. She tries to push herself upright, but Andromache gently presses her back into the grass.

“Stay still,” Miryam says. She is kneeling next to Mor, still dressed in her council clothes, a long silk dress with silver embroidery that seems far too thin for the brisk night air. She must have raced here straight from a meeting if she didn’t even bother to change clothes. The air around her seems to shimmer, alight with power. “Are you in pain?”

Mor wants to say yes, but then, she realizes that she actually isn’t. She has a headache, but beyond that, she can detect no physical pain. Her mind is reeling and her chest feels painfully tight, but that hardly counts.

“No,” she says. “I’m…” She chokes on the word _fine_.

Words keep echoing through her mind, far too loudly, drowning out any thoughts. Her chest feels far too tight, she can barely breathe. Over her, Miryam and Andromache exchange a worried look. The air around Miryam glows with power. Mor doesn’t understand why her power is out, what is going on around them. Are they still fighting?

“The battle…” She stammers.

“We won,” Andromache says. She gently pushes a strand of hair out of Mor’s face, but her face is tense.

“Did you lose control over your powers?” Miryam asks. She glances over her shoulder, then returns her attention to Mor.

She shakes her head. “No, I…” She breaks off. Her tongue feels strangely heavy. “I meant to do this.” She doesn’t even know what _this_ is. But now, she finally understands why her power feels so strange. “It’s fine,” she says to Miryam. “You can give it back.”

“Are you sure?” Miryam asks. “Control can be difficult, especially when you are already exhausted.”

“It’s fine,” Mor repeats. She doesn’t know how to explain to Miryam that she has no trouble at all with controlling her power. She never had. Truth seems to be pleasant in that regard, if in no other.

Still, Miryam only releases her grip on Mor’s power slowly. Bit by bit, it slithers back into Mor’s body. Controlling it is easy enough, though.

“See?” She says once all of her power is back in her body. “All fine.” If that isn’t the biggest lie she ever told.

Neither Miryam nor Andromache seem convinced and when Mor tries to sit up again, Miryam grabs her arm.

“Rest,” she says in a tone Mor likes to call her healer voice. It’s somehow both gentle and firm. “No matter how much control you might have over your power, using that much of it is still a strain and you should give your body time.”

Hearing that from Miryam, who only considers resting when she passes out from pain, is somewhat ridiculous. But getting her to change her mind would require a discussion and now that her head is beginning to clear again, Mor realizes that even though the battle might be over, both Andromache and Miryam likely have duties to deal with.

“Okay,” Mor says. “I’ll just lie down. You two can go, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Andromache asks, but she’s already looking over her shoulder at the battlefield. She must have lost many soldiers today. Mor can already see the shadows on her face.

“Yes, just go.”

“I’ll bring her back to the camp and return to help you,” Miryam says.

Andromache nods and is off before Mor truly has time to process what is happening. Miryam looks over her shoulder.

“Don’t you dare get a stretcher,” Mor warns softly. “I can walk.”

Miryam sighs. “Alright.”

She holds out a hand to pull her to her feet. Mor sways a little and has to grip Miryam’s arm to stay upright, but otherwise, she manages just fine. Miryam pulls her arm around her shoulders and helps her walk back to the camp. In Mor’s tent, Miryam deposits her on the bed. Mor half-expected her to rush off back towards the battlefield immediately, but she sits down next to her.

“What happened out there?” Mor asks softly.

Miryam arches an eyebrow at her. “That’s what I was about to ask you.” When Mor remains silent, she says, “I only arrived at the very end. But Andromache says that the enemy soldiers suddenly fell to the ground, all at once. She thought they were dead at first, but then, some of them started screaming and clawing at their heads. Some allegedly died on the spot, although that may be a rumour. Andromache’s army had an easy game after that. Your power was all over the place, and you were on the ground as well. As soon as the enemy soldiers were taken care off, I turned your power off since you didn’t seem to be able to do it yourself.”

Mor nods. She doesn’t know if she could have pulled her own power back, how much control she had actually left. She doubts she would have been able to fight her way out of her own mind for long enough to call the power back, though.

“Do you know what you did?” Miryam asks softly.

“I showed them truth,” Mor says. Only now that she says it does she realize that’s exactly what she did. “The truths they hide from, the ones that scare them. The ones they hate.”

“And in return, you had to see your own truths,” Miryam says. Mor nods and Miryam walks over to put a hand on her arm. “That was a very brave thing to do,” she says. “Everyone has truths they’d rather not face; doing so anyways takes a lot of strength.”

Mor doesn’t feel brave or strong, though. She feels terrible. Like a pretender. _I didn’t know this would happen,_ she thinks. _If I had known, I’m not sure if I would have done what I did._ And that isn’t bravery. It’s quite the opposite. She didn’t face anything. She just ran from it, and she can’t get herself to stop running.

“I need to go help Andromache,” Miryam says, rising. “But if you have any trouble with your powers, if you need help with anything, pleas tell me. We’ll figure something out.”

Mor nods and watches Miryam walk out of the tent. After that, she lies on her hard bed, staring up at the ceiling. She doesn’t know how much time passes. Her mind is empty, save for the voices that keep ringing in her ears. The pain she feels has nothing to do with physical wounds, but she feels it nonetheless. It’s nearly driving her insane.

Outside of the tent, the sun has already vanished behind the horizon when Mor gets up. She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be running around, but she can’t take the confines of her tent anymore. She needs some fresh air. Carefully, she pushes the entrance to her tent open and slips out.

“Aren’t you on bedrest?” Yanis asks. Apparently, he’s been waiting outside of her tent.

“Consider me well-rested,” Mor says. “I’m going for a walk.”

Yanis doesn’t stop her as she walks past him and into the camp. All around her, soldiers stop their work to stare at her, whisper with each other. _The Morrigan_ , they call her, voices hushed in awe. It seems the entire camp already knows about what she did.

Mor doesn’t want any of it. Her head is still pounding, the words she heard while she used her power echo through her mind. She can’t shake that voice. Is it now permanently etched into her mind? Will she be forced to hear those words over and over again for eternity?

She can’t stand the whispers. The noise of the camp hurts her ears, the lights of the pyres burn in her eyes. The only person whose company she cares for right now is Andromache, but she is a queen whose first duty will always be to her people, and she cannot abandon them in the aftermath of battle. Besides, she might not be all that interested in Mor either way. _Just like the other Fae_ , a voice whispers in her mind. And so Mor is alone when she sneaks out of the camp, away from the eyes and the whispers, and sits down on a small stone.

She never knew truth could be so cruel. It’s the cruellest gift of all.

“Hey,” Andromache says softly and sits down next to Mor.

Mor gives her a tired smile. “Let me guess,” she says, “Yanis told you where I went.” When Andromache simply gives her an apologetic smile, she shakes her head. “You don’t need to worry about me,” she says, “I know you have duties to fulfil with your army.”

“Miryam is filling in for me, so I’ve got time,” Andromache says. “How are you feeling?”

“It didn’t hurt me,” Mor says. Which is not entirely true, but physically, she is fine.

Andromache puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. “When I saw you lying on the ground there, I thought you might die,” she whispers. “I was so scared.”

Mor buries her face in Andromache’s shoulder. For all the horror she experienced today, it’s good that there was at least one person who genuinely cared about what happened to her. It is prove that she isn’t entirely alone. Maybe she can talk to Andromache about what she saw.

“It’s truth,” she says, “My power. And it’s…” She shakes her head. “It showed me things, told me things…” Her fingers tremble. The words repeat over and over in her head, but she can’t bring herself to say them out loud. “It was terrible.

How stupid was she to ever want this? If she thinks about how she spent her day pouring over a book, desperately trying to unlock her powers. What she would have given to be able to turn back time now. She should have listened to Andromache.

“You don’t have to use it,” Andromache says softly. “If you have been able to keep it locked away until now, you won’t ever need to use it again. No one would blame you.”

In a way, this is absolution. They are still at war and Mor’s gift might prove to be invaluable. But what Andromache offers is a free pass for not using it. She won’t be a coward. No one will be able to blame her. It will be fine.

“I won’t ever use it again,” she whispers. “Not in a million years.”

\----

Miryam draws a few odd looks as she walks through Drakon’s camp. Her clothes are splattered in blood and mud, she only barely managed to get the dirt off her face and hands. She spent the past few hours alternating between organizing the post-battle work and helping the healers out.

Well over three hundred soldiers dead. The enemy lost their entire army, but their own losses are still high, the highest out of any battle this month. Miryam gives it an hour at most until the council starts demanding answers. Two hours until they find out what happened. Then, they’ll surely summon Miryam, demand an explanation for what Jurian did. As if she knows.

She stops one of Drakon’s soldiers, a woman she knows briefly from past visits. “Where’s Drakon?” She asks.

“I believe his Highness is in his tent, my Lady,” the soldier replies and hurries on.

Miryam sets off towards Drakon’s tent. She expects him to be stuck in some kind of meeting, but he is alone when Miryam enters, sitting at his desk. He’s drumming a quick rhythm on his leg and flinches when Miryam enters. She immediately knows that something is wrong and wants to ask, but Drakon beats her to it.

“What happened?” He asks, looking at her ruined clothes.

Miryam gives the briefest possible explanation. “Jurian went against orders to chase after Amarantha, which means that a few thousand Vallahan soldiers slipped past our defences. Andromache’s army lost a several hundred soldiers and the only reason it wasn’t more is that Mor used some very strange truth magic I’d never seen before to disable most of their soldiers.”

Drakon seems startled. “Is she okay?” He asks.

Miryam shrugs. “Physically, yes,” she says. Mentally, Miryam isn’t so sure. Mor wasn’t in pain, didn’t seem hurt, but Miryam has never seen her this distraught.

Miryam is far from an expert on Higher Arts – she only barely managed not to let hers kill her – but she knows that they are generally weird. Difficult to master and near-impossible to understand. In her private interpretation, they also tend to come with a price to match the gift, although she is sure most Fae would disagree.

“And you?” Miryam asks. Drakon still seems far too tense. “Is everything alright?”

Drakon shakes his head, shrugging lightly at the same time. He’s still drumming around on his leg, tapping his foot on top of it. Miryam walks over to him and puts an arm around his shoulders.

“What is it?” She asks softly.

Drakon picks up a letter from the table and passes it to Miryam, fingers shaking slightly. Thick paper, a seal pressed into red wax. A sun with a crown hovering over it. Ravenia’s seal.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Panic attack in the first scene (in case you want to skip it, it starts after the conversation ends)

## Chapter 43

Queen Ravenia of the Black Land requested another meeting. Tomorrow, two hours past midday, in the Lake Palace. The letter was polite but cold, not a hint at what she might want this time. Drakon wanted nothing more than to throw the letter into the fire and ignore the summon. Whatever this meeting is about, it won’t be good for him, and going feels like he’s playing into Ravenia’s plans. But at the end of the day, it is better to know about whatever it is Ravenia is planning in advance than to be caught unawares.

So Drakon goes to the meeting. Alone again, even though he longed to ask someone else to accompany him. But Miryam is the only one to know about the sword (and even she knows only that it exists), but she is caught up in a council meeting. Besides, he could never have asked her to face Ravenia for him.

When Drakon arrives in the Lake Palace, Ravenia and Artax are already there. They are standing in the centre of the room, still as statues. The image is unsettling enough that Drakon involuntarily pauses in the doorway, unwilling to go any closer.

"Majesty," he says without inclining his head. He usually manages to mess up Continental etiquette without meaning to, but this time, he is impolite on purpose and he hopes Ravenia notices.

"Your Highness." The queen doesn't incline her head either - Drakon isn't sure if she means to insult him, or if she's just reacting to his behaviour - but she gives him a small smile. Artax, standing half a step behind her, offers the barest nod.

Slowly, Drakon walks over to them, never taking his eyes off Ravenia. He can’t spend the entire meeting hiding by the door, but going any closer to them is deeply unsettling. "What is this meeting about?" He asks.

"I believe you know," Ravenia says, still smiling. "Do tell me, how is Erithia faring lately? I hope everything is well."

Drakon digs his nails into his palms and says nothing. He might have played into Ravenia’s plans by coming to this meeting, but he will not play along with her taunts.

Ravenia frowns at him. "I'll admit," she says, "I have a hard time understanding your intense loathing of me. Our political opinions might differ, but I have never treated you with anything other than politeness, nor given you reason to believe I would mistreat you upon our marriage."

Drakon could have pointed out that she had his family murdered, him tortured and his country invaded, all of which gives ample reason to hate her. But he has no doubt that Ravenia would simply claim all of this was a direct consequence of _his_ actions. Besides, none of these replies would quite cover the truth. After all, his initial dislike of Ravenia was never about him.

"I'd be a terrible person indeed if all I cared about was my own wellbeing," he says. "You own thousands of slaves. You murder and torture children. Innocent people. Your entire country is built on the suffering of thousands. If there was any justice at all, you would have long since drowned in all the blood that was spilled in your name."

Ravenia doesn't look overly impressed. She turns to Artax, who gives her a wry smile.

"Very dramatic, Your Highness," Ravenia says. "If you were a little older, you would understand that political marriages rarely factor in the individual opinions of the participants."

She doesn't even pretend to take him seriously. "I factor in _individual opinions_ , though," Drakon says, "And I'm not going to marry a mass murderer and slave-owner."

Ravenia shrugs with one shoulder. "If you are dissatisfied with this arrangement, you ought to blame your father, not me. He is the one who sold you to me in exchange for trading rights." She absentmindedly plays around with one of her bracelets. "If it is any consolation to you, I would have far preferred a partner who is a little older. I do not fancy marrying a child. Especially not one who has as little care for etiquette and traditions as you do. Had it been up to me, I would have chosen one of your sisters, but your father insisted I could have neither of them."

Drakon doesn't quite manage to hide how much her words hurt him. He always knew that his father didn't need to pick him for this marriage - knew and understood, since his sisters were far too useful in Erithia to marry them off to a foreign queen - but hearing it like this from Ravenia makes it hurt worse. Somehow, she has a talent to turn her words into arrows, and she rarely misses.

"No one is forcing you to marry me," he snaps. It's a weak argument, but at least it buys him time to compose himself.

"You know why," Ravenia says lightly. "And you'd spare us both a lot of discomfort and embarrassment if you just gave in. We both know that you don't have the strength to refuse me forever."

Drakon shakes his head. Is she truly this arrogant? "I don't need to refuse forever," he says, "Just until we win this war. And considering how it's going now, that will be sooner rather than later."

"Not within the next three days, though.”

Drakon stares at her. Dread settles in his stomach. He doesn't know what Ravenia is aiming for, but her tone makes him pause. Artax smirks at him like he is immensely enjoying himself.

"And what, precisely, happens in three days?" Drakon asks. He can’t quite shake the feeling that he stepped into a trap and it’s about to snap shut around him.

Ravenia smiles at him like she just got exactly what she wanted. "We're getting married, of course."

She nods to Artax, who produces a parchment scroll from a pocket in his cloak. He hands it to Ravenia, who passes it on to Drakon. Slowly, he takes the scroll from her.

"Our engagement contract," Ravenia says. "Specifying the terms of our marriage. One of the terms being that we are to be married at latest seven years, seven months and seven days after the contract was signed. That date will be reached three days from now."

Drakon's fingers shake, he nearly drops the paper. "I'm breaking the contract," he says, trying hard to keep his voice steady. "You don't really think I'd marry you because of a piece of paper, do you?"

"You might wish to take a look at the end of the page," Ravenia says lightly. "You'll find your signature, written in blood. Should you choose to confer with that half-breed piece of trash you call friend, I'm sure she'll confirm to you that this contract is magically binding."

Drakon forgets how to breathe. No, he didn't sign a binding contract. He would remember if he had. Binding contracts are no small thing, he wouldn't have mindlessly signed one. Never, not under any circumstances, would he ever have been this stupid.

But he wasn't around for the negotiations of the marriage contract. His father oversaw them and only gave Drakon the final draft to be signed. And his father was six hundred years old, he wouldn't have missed anything as vital as a contract being made to be binding. Nor would he have made Drakon sign one without his knowledge. He wouldn't have. And yet, Drakon’s signature is there, at the bottom of the page.

"You know the punishment for breaking a binding contract, of course," Ravenia says. "So I assume you will prove that you actually do have the ability to be rational and do as you promised."

Yes, he knows the punishments. He'll be lucky if he only loses his magic - if the contract is one of the harsher ones, the price will be his life. And with him being Prince, it wouldn't be uncommon for the fallout to affect Erithia as well.

"I'm not unkind," Ravenia says, "So I will give you time to prepare. As I mentioned, you have three days left until you will be punished for breach of contract. I'll have the marriage planned for that very date, and I'll expect you to meet me here and accompany me to the Black Land in two days."

Drakon doesn't manage a reply. He can't even nod. He keeps staring at his name on the paper, tying him to the contract. He can't breate, can't move.

"I'll see you in two days," Ravenia says. "Keep the contract if you want." With that, she pushes past Drakon, Artax trailing after her like a loyal shadow.

The High Witcher of the Guild pauses next to Drakon. “If I were you, Prince, I’d do as she says,” he says lightly. “It will save you a lot of pain. And besides, I will find that island you are trying so hard to protect with or without your help eventually. I can sense the wards around it fraying, and it will only be a matter of time before I know where it is.”

Drakon begins shaking. Artax is still watching him, head angled slightly to the side. When Drakon doesn’t reply, he shrugs and follows Ravenia out of the room.

As soon as they are gone, Drakon's legs give out from under him and he falls to the floor. Pain flares through his knees, but he barely feels it. He gasps for air, but his lungs won't draw breath. He stares down at the contract in his hand. Shackling him more surely than any iron could have done. He's back in Ravenia's dungeon, trapped in the dark. The world is tilting around him and he can't breathe.

He tries to focus on the world around him. He isn't in a cell, isn't being tied up and beaten. But he can't manage to concentrate on his surroundings. His focus keeps slipping, his chest feels far too tight and he still can't breathe properly. His vision is turning black around the edges. He’s trapped, this time for real. There’s no way out of this.

\----

There are days when Miryam doesn't mind the council meetings. Today is not one of these days. Sitting in the council chamber, listening to complaints while she knows Drakon is meeting with Ravenia, is grating on her nerves.

"Would you kindly explain to us, my Lady, what General Jurian was thinking?" Emperor Shey asks in a tone that hides sharp edges under faked pleasantness.

"It may have escaped your notice," Miryam says, "but I am no longer co-commander of Jurian's camp and therefore not privy to the reasoning behind his decisions. Should you wish to see them explained, you should speak to him, not me."

She is tired of being the one the council goes to whenever Jurian makes a mistake. She will always care for him and wish to help him, but she isn't responsible for his actions. For all her efforts, at the end of the day, it is Jurian who chooses his actions, and Miryam isn't always able to explain his reasoning.

In this special case, she thinks she knows why he did it, but that doesn't mean she's able to find a reasoning the council will accept. And the council has been unruly enough as of late, some of the Fae pushing back against her every word. Her position is getting more and more difficult, and if she lets the blame for Jurian's actions fall back on her, that might well harm her standing beyond repair. (There have been new marriage proposals, too, and Zeku tells her that she cannot refuse forever. The thought terrifies her more than she's willing to admit.)

"Where is General Jurian, anyways?" Another councilmember asks. "Why isn't he here, answering to us himself?"

"I'm sure he's busy in his camp," Nakia replies brusquely. “None of us were informed this would be a trial. If you had sent out a notice in advance, I’m sure he would have come.”

Zeku leans back in his chair. “No one wishes to put the General on trial,” he says, “And all of us have the utmost respect for his past achievements. But his current behaviour is putting people in danger, and that is unacceptable. Whether you like it or not, this discussion needs to be had.”

A few of the humans shift around on their chairs. Nakia glares at Zeku. Most of the Fae mutter in agreement, though. Miryam suppresses a frown. Damn Zeku. Why did he of all people have to steer the conversation in this direction? For the sake of their alliance, Miryam cannot openly oppose him, but she cannot agree either.

They haven’t coordinated their stances for this meeting in advance, but Zeku must have known that any action against Jurian goes against what most human councilmembers want. Jurian is still well-respected amongst the humans, especially the soldiers see him as their biggest hero. (The Fae like him far less, especially since his stance has become more radical lately.) This problem cannot go before the council. No matter what choice they make, it will not go over well.

Nakia glares at Zeku. “And what type of _discussion_ are you aiming for, Grand Duke?”

Miryam cuts in before this can get any worse. “A discussion needs to be had, but not in this council. I’ll go talk to Jurian.”

One of the Fae snorts. “You, his former lover. I can imagine what type of _conversation_ that might be.” He smiles suggestively. A few people laugh. (That they do is a bad sign in itself. A few month ago, no one would have gone along with such a comment against her.)

She waits for the laughter to die down, then says, “I will talk to him _on behalf of the council_. There won’t be a repetition of what happened yesterday.”

Even though she knows she can’t guarantee it. She promised _never again_ once already, and it didn’t work. If it goes badly this time, it _will_ fall back on her, and rightly so, but what else is she supposed to do? Even if there was less controversy around Jurian in the Alliance, Miryam could never support political action against him. She might not have been able to help him through his pain, he might hate her for it, but she would never betray him like this.

“And if there is?” The High Lord of the Night Court asks.

“Then we can _discuss_ ,” Miryam says as pleasantly as she can manage.

Many of the Fae seem dissatisfied. Half a year ago, they would have accepted her decision with far less complaint. Miryam needs to get this under control, and soon, or her entire position will be put in jeopardy.

The meeting, at least, ends soon enough. It's long midday now and Miryam desperately wants to have someone winnow her to Erithia so that she can check in on Drakon. He must be back from his meeting with Ravenia by now - if everything went well, that is - and Miryam needs to see him. She needs to know that everything is alright, that Ravenia didn't do anything to him.

But there's also Jurian. Jurian, who is slipping away from them further and further. Jurian, who is suffering so badly and is putting them all in danger with his actions. She needs to talk to him first, see if she can find a way to help him. Whether he wants to see her or not, she should never have left him on his own devices for this long. Maybe if she had insisted they keep contact…

“Lady Miryam.” Suddenly, Zeku is standing next to her. She didn’t even notice him approaching. “May I have a word?”

She inclines her head. “Of course.”

She follows Zeku to one of the private meeting chambers. He closes the door behind them and Miryam sits down one of the chairs.

“I hope you aren’t offended that I spoke against Jurian today,” Zeku says. “I do value him as a person, but in the current political climate and with how he has been acting, I deemed it the wiser course of action to suggest acting against him.”

“I see,” Miryam says. She cannot truly blame him for his reasoning, but she can’t quite accept it, either.

Zeku inclines his head. “That aside, Jurian is not what I wished to discuss with you today.”

Miryam nods. She guessed as much. It is beyond clear that she is in trouble, it is only natural for Zeku to want to speak to her about it. “The council,” she says. “They are displeased with me.”

Zeku finds glasses and a bottle of wine in one of the cupboards. He pours himself a glass and offers Miryam a glass of water. “ _Displeased_ is not quite the word I’d use,” he says. “They are nervous. You are an unknown piece on the board, no formal alliance to anyone and no set goals for once the war is over. And you are far too powerful to be ignored.”

Miryam pretends to be very interested in her water and doesn’t answer. What is she to say? She assured Zeku time and again that she has no political ambition for after the war. All she wants is to free her people. But saying that never really changed anything, and she is tired of repeating herself. She needs to speak to Jurian. She wants to go see Drakon.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Zeku says, “but you ought to reconsider your stance on a marriage. Marrying into a royal family would offer you the protection you currently lack.”

So they are back to that old game.

“What if I still chose not to?” Miryam asks. The idea of marrying some almost-stranger who just sees her as a way to increase his power terrifies her. It’s like there are shackles already closing around her wrists.

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice,” Zeku says. “Not if you wish to survive this war.”

Miryam chokes on her water and starts coughing. Zeku warned and warned her that the council considered her a threat, but he never so openly suggested that they might _murder_ her. She long since accepted that she might not survive this war, but she never considered that she might get killed by her own allies. “Trust” has always been a relative word in Continental politics, and there are few council members Miryam actually trusts, almost all of them human. Still, there are certain rules that go with being allies – one of them being that you don’t murder each other – and Miryam did trust that all of her allies would keep to it.

She swallows around the lump in her throat. “I will consider it,” she says.

\----

Jurian knows he messed up. He sees it in the way his soldiers look at him, like they are somehow disappointed with him, like they don't know if they can still trust him to lead them. Any elation of their victory has long vanished and left nothing but emptiness and cold, hard anger behind. Andromache hasn't returned to their camp, hasn't even sent word. Jurian assumes she is angry. How could she not be, when he got so many of her soldiers killed?

Like a coward, Jurian hides in his tent. He cannot face the disappointment of his soldiers, who trusted him to do the right thing. Cannot bring himself to go to the council meeting and explain what happened. A defiant part of him wanted to go, to meet their anger with scorn. Did they not win not won, but two victories due to his actions? Is he not the only one in this war who is brave enough to act while everyone else just sits around and argues? Yes, he went against orders, but it turned out alright in the end.

Still, the shame won't go away.

Alone in his tent, he stares down at the maps, notes and reports strewn out over every surface. Tiny victories. That's all he ever seems to win against Amarantha. As long as he doesn't defeat Amarantha, no victory will ever be true. They can never win this war if he doesn’t first get rid of Amarantha, he just knows it. And to do that, he needs to get her to stop this cat-and-mouse game and face him outright. But how?

Something rustles at the tent's entrance. Jurian whirls around, hand going straight for his sword.

"It's just me," Miryam says and closes the entrance behind her.

Jurian quickly lets go of his sword, freezing. He is suddenly acutely aware of the sorry state his tent is in, papers, empty wine bottles and a half-eaten tray of food lying around. He himself doesn’t look much better – his hair is a mess and he hasn’t bathed in… well, in a while. Jurian half-heartedly wonders when he stopped taking care of himself.

“What do you want?” Jurian snaps. His voice is sharper than he meant to, maybe because he is embarrassed. 

“To talk to you.” Miryam in her elegant, long-sleeved court dress seems startingly out of place in this tent. There was a time when she belonged into this camp, no matter what clothes she wore, but now, she is an outsider, almost a stranger.

“I don’t want to talk,” Jurian says. “Go away.”

Miryam doesn’t obey. “I’m worried about you,” she says. “I realize that things have been difficult lately, and I want to help – “

“Oh, don’t pretend you are here because you care about _me_ ,” Jurian bites out. If Miryam is wearing a dress, she came here straight from a council meeting without changing first. And if she comes from the council, that means that she is likely here to chide him for what happened yesterday. “You just want me to stop acting out, that’s all. You aren’t here to _talk_ , the council sent you to reprimand me. Give me a slap on the wrist, get me back in line.”

Miryam, for once, doesn’t hide that his words hurt her, but Jurian couldn’t care less. He just wants her to _leave_. Can’t she see that having her around like this makes it worse? Doesn’t she understand that looking at her feels like being stabbed in the heart? She left him behind. The one person who was always there, always by his side, and she _left_. Even now, she isn’t truly here, isn’t really there to help him. She’s just doing her _job_.

“This isn’t true,” Miryam says softly and takes a step towards him. “ _Of course_ I care about you. I’ll always care.”

“ _And you still left_ ,” Jurian snaps.

Miryam flinches. Looks down at the ground. “I’m sorry,” she says. No further explanation. No comment.

They stand around in awkward silence for a while. Jurian turns abruptly to his table. He finds a half-finished wine bottle in the mess and takes a swig. Miryam, for once, doesn’t comment. She doesn’t leave either, though.

“We’re winning this war, you know,” she finally says, breaking the silence. “It is nearly certain now.”

“And?” Jurian challenges.

“ _And_ I think it might be for the best if you stepped away from the fighting for a while.” Jurian whirls around to her, spilling wine on his tunic as he does. Miryam continues, “Our position is secure enough that we could afford it. And you have been fighting without pause for six years now – more, if you count the time before the war officially started.”

Jurian stares at her, not quite believing his ears. She isn’t suggesting that. There’s no way she’s telling him to _step down_. He spent his entire life fighting for this. Every day, every hour, he fought and fought so that they might one day be free. And now that victory is close, she tells him he isn’t needed anymore? Like he is a broken weapon – no longer useful, so he gets discarded.

Miryam seems to sense his anger, because she takes another step towards him, hand outstretched as if she wants to reach for him. “I’m not suggesting this because I want to push you aside or replace you. Believe me, this is the _last_ thing I want.” She shakes her head. “But Jur, don’t you see…” She makes a vague gesture at the tent, at Jurian. “It can’t go on like that. Not for my sake, or for that of the Alliance, but for _you_. This war is killing you, can’t you see?”

Jurian shakes his head. “So you think I can’t take it anymore?” He asks, voice biting. “That I’m not dealing with my problems correctly?” He lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich, coming from _you_.”

He takes a step towards her. Now, they are standing almost toe to toe. “If you want someone who can’t deal with their problems, who should not be fighting in this war, go find a mirror, Miryam.” His face twists into a bitter smile at the shock on her face. “You dare tell me I’m not dealing with my problems properly? You can’t even talk about yours. All the years we’ve known each other, and you never once managed to sit down and _talk_.” Anger rises in Jurian, bubbling and hot. “You have the nerve to tell me I am no longer fit to fight this war? When _you_ are the one who can’t ever sleep more than two hours at a time, who wakes up screaming every night. When you are so terrified of your own powers that you are barely able to use them, and can’t even get into a dress without shaking.”

Distantly, Jurian is aware that he is crossing a line. That he should stop before he breaks something beyond repair. But he is too angry to care. How dare Miryam come here and tell him that he can’t do this? What gives her the right to look at him like she pities him and pretend she is any better?

“You are just like me,” he says, each word sharp as a knife. “Just as angry, just as ruthless, and just as broken. The only difference between us is that you are a _liar_. You, with your pretty clothes and faked smiles – just because you pretend to be fine doesn’t mean you are. At least I am _honest_.”

Miryam’s face has gone entirely still. Whatever she feels at his words, she doesn’t let it on. Not a flicker of anger or hurt. (He wonders if she realizes that by no reacting, she is proving him right.) Then, she slowly steps back.

“I don’t think this conversation leads to anything,” she says. Her voice is carefully neutral. It’s the same one she uses in council meetings. “I’ll leave you to think about what I said and come back in a day or two. Maybe then, we can talk.”

Without another word, she turns around and walks out of the tent. Jurian watches her go. Just like that, his anger evaporates, leaving him cold and empty.

He shouldn’t have said those things. Why did he ever say that? He doesn’t want her gone, not really. For all that he might tell her to leave, he doesn’t actually want her to. All he wants is for her to stay, and stay for real. But why would she, when he speaks to her the way he did just now?

Fingers shaking, Jurian turns to his notes. He needs to fix this. Somehow, he needs to fix this. He has to kill Amarantha. Amarantha and Clythia both. Once they are gone, everything will go back to normal. It will be fine. Then, he will be better and Miryam will see… She will see that…

He just needs to finish off Amarantha first. And for that, he needs her to stop playing games. If he could just… He pauses.

Revenge. This is what got him to chase after Amarantha in the first place. It’s why he hasn’t been able to let go since. But Amarantha doesn’t have a reason to want to face him. She doesn’t hate him, it isn’t personal for her.

Maybe it’s time for him to change that.

\----

Miryam walks through the halls of Erithia’s royal palace. From the first time she visited, she liked the Erithian royal palace. The entire structure is built from the dark, shimmering wood of the trees that grow in the surrounding mountains. It is pleasantly light, all open archways and huge windows, the wood artfully carved. Nowhere near as obtrusive as stone structures tend to be. The guards incline their heads to her as she passes, servants and courtiers pause and stare, but she barely notices. Jurian’s words are still ringing in her head.

She knows Jurian only spoke out of anger and pain, knows he said those things to push her away, but that doesn’t make what he said sting less. Especially because she knows, deep down, that he is right. Just because she can pretend to be fine doesn’t mean she actually is. And maybe if she had ever managed to be open about her problems, things between her and Jurian would have gone less wrong.

She tries to tell herself that at least she has gotten better about talking, but it doesn’t feel like much. She can talk to Drakon with little problem by now, but that just shows that she could have learned to talk to Jurian, too. If only she had tried harder.

But regardless of her own mistakes, regardless of his sharp words she needs to find a way to help Jurian. Maybe she should ask Drakon, he might have an idea. Although if she can ask him depends entirely on how his meeting with Ravenia went. The guards at the front gate told her he is back in the palace, but that doesn’t necessarily mean everything went well.

The guards in front of Drakon’s suite on the highest floor of the palace let Miryam through without a word. She finds Drakon in the drawing room. He sits on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest and wings tucked in closely to his body. Nephelle and Sinna are also there, they both look grave. Miryam’s chest tightens.

“What happened?” She asks. She isn’t quite able to keep the panic out of her voice.

Drakon looks up, startled. His eyes are red, like he was crying. Miryam quickly walks over to him and wraps her arms around him. Drakon presses his face into her shoulder. Over his head, Miryam meets Nephelle’s eyes. She shakes her head softly.

“She has a contract,” Drakon whispers. His voice sound muffled because he still has his face buried in Miryam’s clothes.

“What?” Miryam asks.

“Ravenia,” Drakon says and straightens. “She has a marriage contract. Magically binding.”

A jolt goes through Miryam. Her first thought is, _This is impossible._ Drakon can’t have signed a binding contract. It’s just not possible, it… She frowns. It is _actually_ not possible.

When several of the Continental royals started showing interest in her, she read up on marriage contracts. Binding contracts, although rare, were also touched upon in the book she chose. So she just happens to know that Continental law explicitly forbids anyone under the age of twenty-five from signing a binding contract. She also knows that Drakon was still twenty-four when he got engaged to Ravenia.

“You signed it?” She asks.

Drakon nods. Miryam flips to the end of the page, and indeed, there is his signature. His father’s is suspiciously missing. Only Drakon and Ravenia signed. No one else.

“Why didn’t your father sign in your stead?” She asks sharply. This is what should have happened, in any case.

“I don’t know,” Drakon says. “I…” He shakes his head, looking unhappy.

“Because he’s a fucking bastard, that’s why,” Sinna snaps. She is glaring daggers at the contract and looks like she would happily murder Drakon’s father herself if he was still alive.

Miryam is inclined to agree, but Drakon already looks upset enough at Sinna’s comment that she doesn’t say anything. Everything is bad enough already and the last thing Miryam should do is to make things worse for him by starting a pointless argument. If Drakon still wants to pretend that his father was a good person, she won’t stop him. Miryam straightens, forces a relaxed calm to replace her panic.

“Okay,” she says, glancing down at the contract. “And what exactly does that mean?”

“I have to marry her within three days,” Drakon says. He stares down at his fingers, but doesn’t seem to see them. His eyes are strangely empty, like he really isn’t processing anything at all. “If I don’t, I’m as good as dead, and there will probably also be consequences for Erithia.”

Miryam’s throat tightens. Magical contracts, like bargains, cannot be taken lightly. And they cannot be broken by any outside force – not even by a witch. With a bargain, Miryam might have stood a chance, but not with an actual contract.

“And…” Miryam begins, but has to pause. Her voice sounds too thick and she has to clear her throat before she can continue speaking. “And what are we going to do about it?”

Drakon doesn’t reply – Miryam isn’t even sure if he heard her – but after a moment, Nephelle answers. “There’s nothing to be done.” Her voice is soft and she doesn’t meet Miryam’s eyes as she speaks.

Miryam shakes her head. “No,” she says. Shakes her head again, as if refusing adamantly enough will make the world bend to her will. “No, there has to be something. There’s always some way. Have you looked through the contract?”

“Of course we have,” Sinna snaps. “Do you think we’re stupid?”

Miryam doesn’t reply. She looks down at the contract in her fingers, fighting the absurd urge to tear it to shreds. Her heart is racing, blood pounding in her ears. “We’ll look again, look more closely. There has to be a way.”

Drakon puts a hand on her arm. “There isn’t one,” he says softly. “There’s no getting out of this.”

Miryam brushes his hand off and jumps to her feet. “Don’t you dare give up,” she snaps. “This isn’t over yet.”

She hates how resigned Drakon sounds, hates how neither Nephelle nor Sinna disagree with him. Her power rumbles awake inside her, a great beast opening an eye. She tries to soothe it, but she is far too upset to even come close. Her power just spirals further and further. She keeps imagining how smug Ravenia must have looked when she told Drakon, how she must now be sitting in her palace, surrounded by her slaves, and drink with Artax to their success.

“Miryam,” Drakon says and reaches for her.

She steps back. She can’t take the look on his face, can’t take the fact that _he_ is trying to calm _her_. Suddenly, there is far too little air in the room, the walls are pressing in on her and her power is roaring inside of her.

“I need to get some fresh air,” she gasps and all but runs out of the room. The guards look at her strangely as she rushes past them, but they make no move to stop her.

She gets lost almost immediately. All she knows of the palace is the way to Drakon’s quarters, and right now, she ended up in a wing of the castle that she never visited before. Her power is still rushing through her, she feels light-headed. For the first time in months, her grip on it is slipping. If she doesn’t find a way to control herself, she’ll bring the entire palace down around them. And hard as it is to anger Drakon, she thinks he might be a little annoyed if she accidentally destroyed his palace. She needs some air, and an open sky above her. Right now.

“Excuse me,” Miryam says to one of the guards who stand along the hallways. She’s out of breath even though she wasn’t running and her power keeps surging. “There’s a roof garden here, right? How do I get there?”

“My Lady.” The soldier bows deeply. “I’m sorry, but I can’t just – “

“Please,” Miryam says. The ground is shifting beneath her feet and she doubts she will be able to control herself much longer. “You can go to Drakon for confirmation, but it would really be easier…” Her magic surges and she doesn’t manage to finish the sentence.

The soldier surveys her, then seems to decide that chances of Drakon being angry if he lets her into the garden are indeed low.

“This way, my Lady.” He walks ahead, and Miryam quickly follows him.

The garden is beautiful, overflowing with colourful flowers, but Miryam barely has eyes for it. Her head is spinning.

“Thank you,” she manages. “If you would leave me alone, please.”

She barely notices the guard bowing again, then leaving quietly. Between the flowers, she drops to her knees, presses her palms against the ground. Breathe in. Breathe out. Ghost taught her to soothe the power like it’s a frightened animal. But today, she cannot. Ravenia’s face keeps appearing in her mind.

“Come on,” she whispers.

With a start, she realizes she still has the contract in her hand. The parchment is crumbled in her fingers and she quickly lets go. Her power surges again and this time, it hurts. Burns like fire. Miryam gasps for air.

“Shit,” she whispers. It has been a while since her power last hurt her like this. She almost expects the shadows to reappear.

Something moves and Miryam flinches, but it’s only a hummingbird that flies over and starts swirling right in front of her face. It’s about the size of her thumb and coloured in vivid blue and green colours. Miryam smiles at it and stretches out a hand.

“Come here,” she whispers.

Something in her chest seems to ease as the tiny bird sits down on her palm. It is beautiful, a perfect, tiny creature. Carefully, Miryam runs a finger over its feathers. She barely dares to touch it; it seems so breakable. The bird rubs its head against her finger. Slowly, Miryam’s power seems to settle.

She keeps watching the hummingbird, focusing only on it. A second one swirls over to her. This one is a bit greener than the last one, and it settles on Miryam’s knee. Miryam smiles and watches the birds. They are the only thing in the world, all he needs to care about. She breathes in slowly. Her power is almost calmed down now.

“All good,” she whispers, looking at the bird. “Thank you, you two.” She smiles after them as the two hummingbirds swirl away.

Her smile fades as her attention returns to the contract, though. Now that she can think straight again, she realizes that she shouldn’t have stormed off like that. She should have stayed and found words to comfort Drakon, not run off like _she_ was the one who ought to be comforted in this situation. She should go back to Drakon, find words to make things easier for him.

Her eyes drift to the contract. Going back now might be the right thing. But it would also amount to admitting defeat. None of the others are willing to try. They think it is impossible to get out of the contract, and maybe they are right.

But if there’s one thing Miryam has learned these past years, it’s that _impossible_ is an illusion. Impossible is a sixteen-year-old runaway slave from the Continent’s cruellest country starting a war all over the world and becoming leader of half the Continent. Impossible is a human girl being a witch. Impossible is breaking into Ravenia’s palace and stealing her most valuable prisoner from right under her nose. Impossible is a spell that effectively cleaves the world in two.

Miryam long since stopped believing in impossible. And she isn’t about to start now.

She spends the next hours sitting over the contract, trying desperately to find the loophole in the contract. She doesn’t understand all of the words, which makes it difficult, but there has to be a loophole. There’s _always_ a loophole.

Over her, the sky turns dark and Miryam has one of the soldiers bring her a candle. By its flickering light, she keeps working. The moon has reached its highest point already when she finds it. A small paragraph, easy to dismiss, and yet it changes everything. If only she can manage one small trick.

\----

Ever since Drakon managed to return to Erithia, he has been strangely calm. It’s like he’s separated from his surroundings by a thin wall. He can see and hear anything around him, but it only reaches him in a muted, less vibrant version. He can’t even feel panic or terror.

He is, of course, aware that this is just a strange reaction to shock. His body is shutting down, he is going numb. But it makes things so much easier.

Miryam hasn’t returned. He doesn’t know where she has gone. Maybe back to Telique. He desperately wishes she was back here with him, but at the same time, he understands if she needs space. This is probably just as much a shock for her as it is for him. (Sinna glowered a bit at her disappearance, but largely let it pass.)

They sit together for most of the night. Nephelle fishes a bottle of liquor out of one of the cupboards. They pass the bottle between them, none of them speaking a word, until they emptied a bottle.

It’s long past midnight when Nephelle falls asleep, head resting against Sinna’s chest. Sinna absentmindedly runs a hand through her hair.

“You could refuse,” she says, voice barely more than a whisper. “The magic might leave you alive. And we can face any other consequences.”

Drakon shakes his head. “You know that contracts ruling families sign tend to affect their land as well. I cannot risk that.”

Sinna nods and doesn’t say anything else. They sit in silence for another hour until Sinna finally falls asleep. Drakon isn’t tired at all. He remains sitting on his couch, knees drawn up to his chest. With a start, he realizes that this is his second-to-last night in Erithia. In two days, he will be in the Black Land. He needs to see to it that his affairs are settled. Name a successor. Talk to his council. Leave orders behind.

His stomach lurches and Drakon barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up.

He spends the rest of the night lying on his back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He wonders what will happen once he’s married to Ravenia. She’ll likely make him take her to Cretea, to the cave. She will take the sword, and she will take Erithia. What she will do then, Drakon cannot imagine, but he doubts it will be good for any of them. He doubts he will ever know. He doubts Ravenia will kill him, but she will certainly lock him up somewhere and throw away the key. (He tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter. That if what Artax said is true, they would have found Cretea and the sword eventually with or without this contract. But knowing this doesn’t help. It doesn’t help at all.)

He’s so scared. For himself, but mainly for the rest of the world. The humans, Erithia, the entire Cauldron-damned Alliance…

He cannot let this happen. It isn’t just about him and his country. If Ravenia gets her hands on the sword, they will all be doomed. And Drakon would rather die than allow that to happen. He just doesn’t know how to stop her.

He must have fallen asleep after all, because he startles awake when the door slams open. Sinna is already on her feet, hand reaching for a knife.

“I’ve got it!” Miryam says as she storms into the room.

Her hair is in disarray, standing wildly up from her head. Her eyes are bloodshot and her clothes ruffled, but she is smiling wildly. There is an almost frantic energy radiating off her, power sizzling through the air.

“What?” Drakon asks. The memories come back abruptly, like a slap in the face. He sits up.

“I’ve found a loophole,” Miryam says. She waves the contract in front of their faces. “Here, section four.”

Drakon’s hear misses a beat, then races on with twice its usual speed. “Really?” He asks, slightly out of breath. Nephelle is on her feet as well now, any tiredness vanished.

Miryam nods. “I knew there would be something,” she says. She lets herself fall on the couch next to Drakon and points to a passage in the contract. “Here, look.”

Drakon reads the passage and feels his heart drop. He already knew about this particular exception; it is common for any and all Continental marriage contracts. But he won’t be able to use it.

“That won’t work, Miryam,” he says as softly as he can. “I’m only except from having to follow the contract if I find a mate, and as far as I know, I don’t have one. Even if I do, I certainly won’t find them within the next few days.”

“I know you don’t have a mate,” Miryam says, waving the comment off. “But we could change that. I mean, I could. Being a witch has to be useful for _something_ , doesn’t it?”

Drakon stares at her. “You mean…” He breaks off.

“You want to _create_ a mating bond?” Nephelle asks, eyes wide.

Miryam nods. “It won’t be an actual mating bond, but it will look similar enough that it should fool the contract.” She reaches for his hand. “If I can convince the contract’s magic that we are mates, you won’t have to marry Ravenia. It will all be fine.”

Hope flutters in Drakon’s chest, but he forces it down. Much as he would want this, much as he loves Miryam for being ready to do this for him, they can’t go through with it. “Just having a mate wouldn’t be enough, though,” he says. “The contract requires I marry that person.”

Miryam’s smile fades and she nods, suddenly serious. “Yes. I suppose it does.”


	44. Chapter 44

## Chapter 44

Miryam is alone with Drakon in his suite. Nephelle and Sinna left them, the latter only grudgingly, to allow them some privacy. Now, Miryam and Drakon are sitting together on the couch, awkward silence between them.

“I can’t ask you to do this,” Drakon finally says.

“Well, you didn’t,” Miryam says. “I offered.”

Annoyingly enough, Miryam’s stomach choses that moment to let out a low growl. Fortunately, Drakon seems to be too caught up on his worries to notice. She looks around the room, hoping to find something like breakfast anywhere, but there’s no food to be seen, not even a glass of water. Asking seems unfitting, considering what they are just discussing, but she hasn’t eaten in almost a day.

“It was my mistake, Miryam.” Drakon shakes his head, frowning. “Knowing or not, I signed that contract. I agreed to the engagement. And I can’t… I can’t let you suffer for my mistakes.”

Miryam crosses her arms. “I didn’t know I would be _suffering_.” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Don’t you think I considered what I want before I went to talk to you?”

She spent the majority of the night thinking about it, while she worked on the spell to create the mating bond. She is fully aware of what she is doing, what it will mean for her.

Unfortunately, Drakon doesn’t seem to see that. “No,” he says, “I just don’t think you place much value in your own wellbeing and wishes.”

There’s little Miryam can say to argue with that. She could insist that she is fine with this, that it doesn’t make her unhappy, but she isn’t entirely sure if Drakon would believe her. Her own fault, of course. Several years of lying about being _fine_ certainly impacted her credibility.

Drakon rubs a hand over his face. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he says. “That you’re willing to do this… I can’t even tell you how much it means to me. And I love you. But _because_ I love you, I cannot agree to this when I know that it’s not something you truly want.”

Miryam sighs. “Even if you didn’t want to marry me, it would be perfectly fine,” she says.

Maybe presenting herself as the logical first option was a mistake. Their relationship is at a stage where most people don’t even think about marriage, and Drakon is a prince, which means that he always has his country’s best interests to consider. She couldn’t blame him at all if he decided that he didn’t want to marry her. It wouldn’t even be judgment of their relationship.

“And your choice certainly isn’t between me and Ravenia,” she adds. She hopes he already knew that, but she still feels the need to say it. She wants to do this, but not if Drakon thinks the choice is between him and Ravenia. “I could create a bond between you and any other person if you’d prefer that. But I think we should at least talk about this before making any choices.”

Drakon reaches for her hand. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry you,” he says, then smiles shyly. “I mean, I don’t want to marry at all at this point. But if I have to get married, I’d want it to be you.” He shakes his head. “But Miryam… You don’t want to get married, and unlike me you don’t have to. And you…” He gestures helplessly. “You want to live a quiet life after this war is over. And if you marry me, you’ll never have this. You will be Princess, and even if you decide to stay out of court life for the most part, there would still be expectations. For the rest of your life.”

Miryam nods. Presses her lips together. This, she considered as well, sitting in Drakon’s beautiful roof garden. It forced her to face more than once bitter truth, but face it she did.

“This quiet life is an illusion,” she says softly. “It always was.”

Even if she believed it for the longest time. And it was such a beautiful lie, too. No matter how terrible Miryam’s life might have been, how much she might have hated it, there was the idea that she could eventually live a normal life. A quiet village, working as a healer. But that future became impossible the moment Miryam stepped out on the balcony in Telique and started a continentwide war.

“I’ll still step back from Continental politics,” she says. “Reduce my role as far as possible. But you don’t get to lead half the Continent and then go live in a small village somewhere in the countryside. It simply isn’t how the game is played.”

If the Fae leaders are truly this scared of her, they will never allow her to vanish off the playing field. The position she currently has might grant her some small level of security – although even that isn’t enough if Zeku is to be believed – but if she gives it up and retreats to some unknown village, she will lose even that. It won’t be more than a month from then until someone decides to tie up loose ends and has her removed quietly.

“But you always said…” Drakon begins, then shrugs a bit helplessly.

“I spoke to Zeku yesterday,” she says. “I was going to tell you directly, but, well…” She smiles. “He told me I have to marry into a royal family if I don’t want to get murdered before the war is over.”

Drakon’s eyes widen. He even lets go of her hand in surprise. “You mean…” he stutters. “But you are leader of the Alliance! They can’t… That would be _honourless_.”

She snorts. “Apparently, they care more about the danger I might pose to their positions than they do about honour. Zeku thinks that if I were to marry, become royalty myself, that would tip the scales in my favour again.” Fae royal families on the Continent only very rarely murder each other. What Ravenia did to Drakon’s family was the exception, and it was what gave many countries the final push to turn against her.

“So you have to get married too?” Drakon asks.

Miryam nods. “I’m told in most cases, it’s more of a political contract,” she says, “But I can’t bear it. None of these people give a damn about me, they only want me to advance their own power. And if I were to agree, it would feel like I’m selling myself.”

Drakon doesn’t try to tell her that she is over-reacting, or that she’s being ridiculous. “And it doesn’t feel that way with me?” He asks.

Miryam smiles and shakes her head. “No,” she says simply, “It doesn’t.”

If her and Drakon marry, it isn’t about power, or about political positions. He doesn’t want her simply because of the position she holds in the Alliance, doesn’t want to collect her. Politics and such things might play a role in their marriage, but they will never be the sole reason.

“I don’t want to get married either,” she says softly. “But if I do have to, I’d want it to be you.”

Drakon takes her hand again. “So we’re actually getting married?” He asks like he can’t quite believe it.

“I think so.” Miryam smiles at him, more freely now that they’ve made their final choice. “And imagine all the things we might change that way.”

Slowly, Drakon begins to smile back. “You think we could find a way to establish human communities in Erithia?” He asks. “I know we were planning on separate countries, but just imagine…”

“I was thinking just the same thing!” Miryam grins at him. “Imagine if we actually got that to work! Humans and Fae living together in peace.”

Drakon pulls her to her feet, whirls her around. “It would be the first time in history,” he says. “And it will be difficult. But if we got it to work, it would change everything.”

Miryam laughs, suddenly giddy. Right now, in this moment, they can do everything, face everyone. “And imagine the look on Ravenia’s face when she finds out!”

A knot forms in her stomach, like every time she thinks of her, but this time, she doesn’t let it deter her. Ravenia lost, she lost once again, and Miryam will not allow that victory to be dimished by fear.

“Do you think she’ll know?” Drakon asks. “What we did, I mean.”

Miryam grins and squeezes his hand. “If she doesn’t, I’ll have to tell her,” she says. “It wouldn’t do to have her think this was chance and not our actions.”

\----

Sinna listened to Drakon’s explanation in silence. She doesn’t comment, but her mouth tightens further with each word he says. When he is done, she shakes his head.

“I don’t like this,” she says. “You’re too young to get married.”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” Drakon says. “I have to get married within three days whether I want it or not.”

The one choice he does get to make is who he wants to marry, and he meant what he said to Miryam: She’s the only person in the world he could actually imagine marrying.

This doesn’t seem to soothe Sinna. “But why Miryam?” She asks.

The question takes Drakon aback. “Because I love her?” He says, question and answer in one. “Because she is the only person I could actually imagine life with.”

Sinna doesn’t seem satisfied. Not at all. But for once, she hesitates before speaking. It’s enough to make Drakon worry. In all the years he’s known Sinna, rarely ever hesitated before speaking.

“What is it?” Drakon prompts when she remains silent.

“Before I go on,” Sinna says, “I would like you to remember that I never interfered with your relationship to Miryam. I only have the biggest respect for her and what she’s accomplished. But I don’t think she is the type of person you should marry.”

Drakon frowns. Of all the reasons Sinna might have offered, he never considered that she might think he might disapprove of him marrying Miryam.

“Miryam is…” Sinna hesitates. “I don’t doubt that she is a kind woman, but she is far more similar to Jurian than she is to you.”

“I don’t see how that is a bad thing,” Drakon says. He understands Sinna is worried for him, but he doesn’t like the direction this conversation is going at all. “I’ll remind you that Jurian was one of my closest friends.”

Sinna sighs. She gets up and walks over to the window. Leaning at the window frame, she looks out of the city below. “It is admirable,” she says, “for someone who comes from the very bottom to rise as high as Miryam did. To start out a slave and end as one of the most powerful people on the entire Continent. But it takes a certain amount of ruthlessness as well.”

“And you think this is news to me?” Drakon asks. He can’t quite help sounding incredulous. “You think that after more than five years of friendship, I don’t _know_ Miryam?” He shakes his head. “Have you ever considered the option that I might actually know her better than you do?”

He is perfectly aware that there is a duality to Miryam. That while they are very similar in many ways, they are fundamentally different in others. He knows that Miryam has an edge he always lacked, knows that she would always be able to make choices he would shy away from. If it came down to it, he doesn’t doubt that she would do what’s necessary to win this war.

It doesn’t make her kindness any less genuine, though. Doesn’t mean they don’t dream of the same things, don’t share the same ideals and visions for the future. If anything, it makes it more beautiful to Drakon.

“Don’t you think I might actually know her _better_ than you do?” He asks.

“I’m not doubting that,” Sinna says. “And I’m not claiming she isn’t a good person, or a good friend.” She turns around to face him. “But are you entirely sure about her intentions when it comes to this marriage?”

Drakon blinks at her. It takes him a moment to understand what Sinna is implying.

“You think she wants to marry me for _power_?”

“And I wouldn’t blame her for it,” Sinna says with a shrug. “It would be the smart thing to do, for a woman in her position. And there are worse reasons to get married.”

Drakon shakes his head. “This isn’t why.”

The very idea is ridiculous. Miryam received marriage proposals from all of the Alliance’s most influential families. If she wanted to marry for power, she would pick Zeku. Drakon would love to tell Sinna as much, but he isn’t sure if that information is meant to be shared.

Sinna walks over and sits down next to him. “Then look me in the eye and tell me you are absolutely certain that you are not being played. If this is what you believe, without a single doubt, then I will drop this subject and never bring it up again.”

Drakon nods. He meets her dark eyes without blinking and says, “I am sure, without the shade of a doubt, that Miryam pursues no intentions with this marriage beyond the ones she told me about.”

Sinna holds his gaze for a moment, then nods. “Then that is settled.” She nods again. Straightens. “As far as people you want to marry might go, Miryam is a good choice. She isn’t from Erithia, which is a problem, but her talents and yours complement each other.” She nods a third time, as if to reassure herself. “Having her on the ruling council together with you will be good.”

Drakon nods, thinking of the plans they made.

“You’ll have a contract, of course,” Sinna continues. “Apart from the basics and the power divisions, is there anything specific you want, or can we tell the people who will negotiate that contract for you that they should allow Miryam to choose?”

“Miryam can choose,” Drakon says without hesitation. Marriage contracts are important for both sides, of course, but generally more important for the person who is marrying into a different country’s royal family.

Sinna nods and gets up. “I’ll pass it on,” she says. “And now that this is done, we should get going. There’s a lot to do if you truly want to get married tomorrow.”

\----

A day is far too little time to prepare a royal wedding. Even a month would be too short, as an advisor whose name Miryam doesn’t know tells her. There are a million things to be done, and far too little time.

She barely sees Drakon. He is busy talking to his council, trying to help organize a wedding in a day. Meanwhile, Miryam is stuck in negotiations for the marriage contract. Drakon has people doing it for him, but Miryam lacks the advantage of being royal and doesn’t have any people working for her. She sent a message to Andromache, who came over from her camp to help, and Drakon got a lawyer from the city for her, which is a good thing because Miryam is completely lost when it comes to legal texts.

The meeting drags on endlessly. They aren’t even debating the contents of the contract – for the most part, Drakon’s people simply explain the options and ask Miryam after her preferences. For the most part, she even gets what she wants. But there are just so many things to consider, countless clauses they need to fulfil.

After three hours, they take a break. The Seraphim lawyer they have working for them nods at Miryam and Andromache, then withdraws.

“You’re crazy,” Andromache says as soon as he’s gone. “Just so you know it.”

Miryam shrugs. She still doesn’t quite realize what is happening. Ever since she heard about the contract, she has been thrumming with a frantic energy. She doesn’t feel tired, even though she hasn’t slept in well over a day.

“Do you think I’m being stupid?” She asks softly.

“Depends,” Andromache says. “I may not be entirely aware of the reasons behind this… _spontaneous_ decision, but I assume you both have your reasons. And Drakon is a good person – it’s obvious that you love him, and he loves you.” She picks a rice ball off a plate one of the servants brought. “But have you truly considered the consequences? This is a very permanent decision, and you are still young.”

Miryam looks down at her fingers. She is perfectly aware of how permanent her choices are. The contract they are currently writing guarantees her many liberties (not to mention that it basically makes her the second most powerful person in all of Erithia). She can have lovers whenever she wants, can spend her time where she wishes. But if she choses to marry Drakon now, she will always be tied to Erithia. As its Princess, she will have duties. Always.

Still, she is nearly certain that this is what she wants. She can imagine life with Drakon, imagine it easily. She doesn’t have any doubt about that. It’s being Princess of a Fae country that worries her more, but even that will probably be bearable. As far as Fae countries go, Erithia is quite nice, and as Princess, Miryam will be in a position to make some changes together with Drakon. Maybe they’ll truly manage to establish human communities, a peaceful coexistence for humans and Fae.

“I’m sure,” she says. “This is what I want to do.”

Andromache nods. “That’s good.”

The meeting drags on. Another three hours later, the contract is finally ready. The Fae who oversaw the meeting informs Miryam that the text will go straight to a scribe to be written in its final form and will be ready for signature within a few hours. After that, Andromache has to head back to Telique, and Miryam is presented with a seamstress who needs to take her measurements for appropriate wedding clothes. As soon as the seamstress is done, a courtier appears to shoo Miryam into another room where an elderly Seraphim walks her through the protocol for royal weddings.

By the time Miryam is finally free to go, the sun has already set and the palace halls are lit by faelight. The courtier who sent her to her last meeting is there again, but he seems at a loss for where to take her next.

Fortunately for both of them, Nephelle appears in time to save them. “I’ll take her,” she says to the courtier, links her arm with Miryam’s and starts walking.

“Do you mind if I take you to Drakon’s quarters?” She asks softly. “You will have quarters of your own once you are married, but they aren’t ready yet, and I thought you might not want to spend the night in one of the guest suites.”

“Sure,” Miryam says absentmindedly.

The frantic energy that kept her going so far has vanished, leaving her completely drained. She stumbles over her feet and Nephelle grabs her arm to keep her upright.

“You look like you were run over by a cart,” Nephelle says. “Are you alright?”

“Just tired,” Miryam mutters.

“Quite hectic, right?” Nephelle grins and nudges her in the side. “I’ve always dreamed of seeing a real royal wedding sometime, but I never considered that it might entail this much stress.”

Miryam smiles. “I imagine most royal weddings have more than one day to be planned.”

“True words.” Nephelle’s smile fades. “I know this is a very short timeframe,” she says. “And as someone who has known Drakon from his childhood and considers him a younger brother, I’m beyond grateful that you are doing this. Still: You’re sure that this is what you want?”

“Yes,” Miryam replies, this time without hesitation. “I’m sure.”

“Good.” They have reached Drakon’s quarters and Nephelle lets go of her arm. “Do you want me to stay?”

Miryam shakes her head. “Thank you, but I just want to sleep.”

Nephelle smiles and leaves her behind at the door. Miryam quietly closes the door behind her. She barely manages to pull off her shoes before she falls asleep on the couch.

Soft voices wake her. Miryam stirs. Still heavy from sleep, she yawns and sits up.

“I’m sorry,” Drakon says softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He’s still dressed in fine clothes, although they seem a little ruffled after an entire day spent running around. Sinna and Nephelle are with him. A look at the clock reveals that it’s three hours past midnight. With a start, Miryam realizes that she’s getting married today.

“Still awake?” She asks with another yawn.

“Yes.”

Miryam draws up her knees and motions for Drakon to sit down next to her. He does, Sinna and Nephelle sitting down on the other couch. Nephelle leans her head against Sinna’s shoulder.

“They’ve got the contract ready,” Drakon says and holds out a scroll. “I already signed, but you can read through it again before you do if you want to.”

Miryam nods and sits up. Her dress is hopelessly crumbled, but she still tries to straighten it before taking the scroll from Drakon. Simply signing a contract is distinctly unromantic, but for royal marriages, it has little to do with the actual ceremony. Contracts are signed upon engagement, and during the actual marriage ceremony, vows are exchanged.

“And I still need to cast the spell,” she says. “So that we can officially ‘accept’ the bond tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes.” Drakon hesitates. “Do you want to do it now, or…”

“Now is fine.” Miryam yawns again. “Just give me a moment to wake up fully.” The last thing she wants is to mess up with a spell as important as this. She reaches for Drakon’s hand. “I’m confident that this spell will work,” she says. “But you should know that there’s always a chance that it won’t fool the contract.”

Drakon frowns slightly. Sinna straightens. “How big a chance?” She asks.

“One out of ten?”

Drakon nods without hesitation. “Then I suppose I’ll have to take that risk.”

“Talking of risks,” Sinna says, “I think it would be best if news of that spell didn’t leave this room.”

Miryam frowns and Nephelle jumps in to explain. “Many Fae believe that mating bonds are sacred. They are seen as gifts from the Cauldron. If it became public that you cast a _spell_ to recreate one, people might take it amiss. It could be considered to be blasphemy.”

Drakon makes a face at the word, but Miryam has a different problem.

“That won’t work,” she says.

“Why?” Sinna asks.

“I have to tell Jurian. The entire story.”

If she doesn’t, it will make it so much worse for him. No doubt the mating bond will be made into some huge romance by the Fae, who somehow think there is nothing more romantic than some cosmic bond tying two people together. And if Jurian thinks she married Drakon over a mating bond, that would be a hard blow for him.

“Of course.” Drakon winces. “He doesn’t even know about our relationship yet, if we marry without explaining…”

“And what if he tells?” Sinna asks sharply.

“Jurian is already suffering enough,” Drakons says, “I refuse to make it worse unnecessarily.” He turns to Miryam. “Do you want me to come when you talk to him?”

Miryam would love nothing more than to say yes. She is scared of talking to Jurian – not out of any fear of him, but because she knows how much this will hurt him. And she cannot bear to see Jurian hurt, least of all because of her. But she knows that taking Drakon along will just make it worse for Jurian, and she would be the worst kind of coward if she chose to make this easier for herself at his expense.

“I’ll go alone,” she says. “It will be easier that way.”

Sinna frowns at her, but doesn’t comment. Drakon simply nods.

Miryam straightens. “I think I’m ready for the spell now,” she says. “I’ll go to Jurian afterwards.”

She gets up and stretches, then goes looking for her notes on the spell. She finds them on a small table at the edge of the room.

Nephelle leans forward. “I’ve never seen a witch spell,” she says. “This is exciting.”

Miryam shrugs. “I’m afraid this spell won’t be very flashy.”

Few witch spells are, to be honest. Fae can sense the power occasionally, but unless it’s something really big, the effect isn’t generally visible to anyone who isn’t a witch. This one certainly won’t be.

“I need you to cut your arm,” Miryam says to Drakon. “We need blood for the spell.”

Drakon winces slightly at the thought, but draws his knife and holds it over his palm. Miryam grabs his wrist before he can cut himself. “The _arm_ ,” she says. “Hand cuts get infected far more easily and are more painful.” Drakon angles the knife over his arm. “But not too deep,” Miryam adds.

“I know,” Drakon says with a wry smile. He slices the knife over his arm, wincing as he does. Miryam takes up the knife and runs it over her own arm. It hurts, but not much.

“Good,” Miryam says softly. “We need to press our arms together now.”

They grasp each other by the elbows and press their arms together. Miryam grips the paper with the spell with her free hand. A drop of blood falls on the paper.

“I’ll start now,” She says. “I might feel… I don’t know. Strange.”

Drakon nods. Miryam holds his gaze as she begins the spell. They burn in her throat as they always do, but her power plays along just fine. Smaller strings appear in front of her and weave together to a tight cord. With each of Miryam’s words, it tightens. She finishes the spell and the cord snaps into place between them. Miryam looks up and finds Drakon, Sinna and Nephelle staring at her.

“It didn’t work?” Sinna asks.

“Of course it worked,” Miryam says. She curiously looks down at the small cord that now connects her and Drakon.

“But nothing happened!” Nephelle exclaims.

“Not very flashy, like I said.” Miryam grins and tugs at the cord that now connects them. Drakon flinches.

“Was that…”

Miryam takes his hands and grins broader. “A mating bond.”

\----

Ever since the battle, Mor’s life has been in a steady downwards spiral that shows no sign of stopping. By now, she is nearly certain that some higher power is trying to punish her for wishing for powers beyond what any person should reasonably have. Arrogant, that’s what it was, and now, she’s paying the price.

Part of that price includes facing her uncle’s questions.

“And you’re absolutely sure you cannot do it again?” He asks.

It’s the same question he has been asking over and over again since their meeting started, ever since Mor described what happened. It is becoming tiresome. Especially because her uncle is a talented liar himself, and lying to him is a challenge.

“I don’t even know how I did it,” she lies. “It just happened. I wouldn’t even know where to start if I was to replicate it.”

A lie, of course. Mor knows exactly what happened and would be able to do it again quite easily. She won’t, though. Even if it was her life at stake, she would never use her powers again. The very thought terrifies her.

“But have you tried?” The High Lord presses.

“Yes.” Mor sighs. “Nothing happened, though.”

And so they restart their game of question and evasion. By the time he finally allows her to take her leave, Mor is completely drained. She only barely manages to winnow back to Andromache’s camp.

“Evening Mor!” Yanis calls out to her from where he’s standing with some of the guards. “Had a fun meeting?”

“Sure,” Mor mutters, sarcasm dripping in each word. “Where’s Andromache?”

“Erithia.” Yanis shrugs. “Something’s up with Miryam. Or Drakon, I’m not sure.”

Mor frowns. “Something bad?”

“Not that I know of.”

Mor sighs. She briefly considers winnowing to Erithia to find out what this is about, but she doubts it would be any use. If she is allowed to know about what’s going on, she will be told sooner or later. Otherwise, asking around after secrets that are not for her to know will lead to nothing.

In her tent, she lies down on her bed and stares up at the ceiling. Even days later, the words she heard when she used her power still echo in his head. She wonders if they’ll ever go away. If there will ever be a day when she doesn’t need to hear that horrible voice.

She should never have used her powers. Some truths are simply too horrible to face.

Almost an hour passes until Andromache arrives. She steps through the tent’s entrance, dressed not in her armour but in fine council clothes. When she sees Mor lying on the bed, she smiles and sits down next to her.

“Did your uncle leave you in one piece?” She asks.

Mor nods. “I think he suspects I’m not telling him everything, though.” Considering that, her uncle was surprisingly polite. “And you? Any trouble?”

“No.” Andromache says. “Are your free tomorrow?”

“Yes?” Mor arches an eyebrow at her. “Anything specific?”

“Miryam and Drakon are getting married.”

Mor stares at her, not quite comprehending the words. “Miryam and Drakon are…” She begins, then breaks off.

“Getting married, yes,” Andromache finishes for her. “Don’t ask me why, though, because my guess is as good as yours.”

Mor shakes her head. “They are getting married,” she says slowly. “Within a day. And you don’t know why?”

“The obviously false reason is that they are mates,” Andromache says.

Mor yelps. “ _Mates_?” She lets out a startled laugh.

Miryam and Drakon – mates. Who would have thought. They are hardly the typical pair, not as closely matched in power as mates usually are. Mor still finds the pairing fitting, though. They are both kind, both share the same vision for the future of the Continent.

“And you’re surprised they decide to marry?” She asks. “If they are _mates_?”

Andromache shrugs entirely too nonchalantly. “So what? That’s hardly a reason to marry within _a day_.”

Mor laughs and grips her hands. “Of course it is,” she says. “It’s a _mating bond_.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t see anything particularly romantic about some strange bond dictating your life choices,” Andromache says. “I’d much rather be chosen by someone who loves me than have magic make the choice for us.”

Mor frowns. She never heard anyone express a view like that. Most people she talked to saw a mating bond as the epitome of romance. “But it means you belong together,” she says hesitantly. “That you were meant to be together.”

“I’d still rather choose,” Andromache says. She smiles at Mor. “We chose each other, after all. And I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

Mor can feel herself blushing. “Of course, I…” She pauses, hoping that Andromache didn’t take her words the wrong way. It wasn’t what she meant. “I love you.” She leans forward and kisses Andromache on the nose.

She doesn’t say that she secretly hoped for quite a while that her and Andromache would turn out to be mates. That she thought it might fit, considered it to be romantic. She never considered that Andromache might not feel the same way.

The queen tugs her legs up to the bed and snuggles in next to Mor. “Maybe it’s a cultural thing,” she says. “A difference between humans and Fae.” She leans her head against Mor’s shoulder. “I think Miryam would feel the way I do, though,” she says. “Which is why I don’t believe that this is about a mating bond – whether it actually exists or not.”

Mor considers telling her that there’s no way to fake a mating bond, that Fae can sense if it exists, but she is tired of this topic. It makes certain differences between the way Andromache and her view the world become all too apparent and Mor finds that unsettling. _She won’t want to be with you forever, not when your opinions differ so much,_ the voice whispers in Mor’s head. _She will realize that deep down, you don’t_ understand _, and she will leave._

Mor shakes it off. She smiles brightly at Andromache. “So there will be a wedding tomorrow?” She asks. “In that case, may I ask for the first dance with this beautiful lady?”

Andromache laughs and leans forward to kiss her.

\----

Miryam leaves Erithia at dawn. Tasia arrived from Telique at late evening and brought some of her spare clothes, so Miryam is now dressed in a light tunic and pants. After running around in a dress for most of yesterday, wearing more covering clothes again is an immediate relief. It doesn’t quite manage to soothe the anxiety she feels at her conversation with Jurian, though.

This early in the morning, the camp is still mostly asleep. The guards on duty are at their posts and a few other soldiers are slowly crawling from their tents. Miryam calls out greetings to a few of them.

Jurian is in his tent, which saves Miryam from having to search for him, but also forces her to confront him right away. Remembering his reaction from last time, she knocks before entering. Jurian is sitting at his table. His eyes are bloodshot and there’s something wild in his gaze as he looks up.

“Miryam.” He jumps to his feet, knocking over his chair as he does. “You’re back!”

“Yes.” She tries to smile, but doesn’t quite manage. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Of course.” Jurian walks around the table. “I wanted to talk to apologize. What I said last time. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”

Miryam shakes her head. He doesn’t want Jurian to apologize. He had a right to be angry then, and he has it now.

“It’s alright,” she says. Summoning all the courage she can muster, she begins, “I need to tell you that – “

“I was just so angry,” he interrupts. “I don’t know how you could ever suggest anything like this. I’ve always done my work, you know it! You can’t take that away from me.”

Miryam should probably reply to that, try to explain that she isn’t suggesting this to harm him. But she cannot open up another argument, not today. “I know,” she says as soothingly as she can manage. “But this is not what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m going to – “

“And I’m going to fix it all soon, anyways,” Jurian says. “Just trust me. A few days and it will all be fine. You’ll see.”

But Miryam doesn’t want to _see_ anything. She wants Jurian to stop interrupting her, she wants to finally get the chance to tell him what she has come here to say before she loses her courage. It is already getting more difficult with each passing minute. Jurian is done, she sees it in his feverish eyes, in his too-thin frame. How can she put another burden on him?

“Jurian, I’m…” _I’m getting married today and I don’t know how to tell you._

“I know you don’t like this,” Jurian says. “But you have to trust me. I know what I’m doing. I have a plan.”

“Jurian, would you _listen to me_?”

“I’m sorry.” Jurian runs a hand through his hair. His fingers tremble slightly. Miryam wonders if he’s drunk, or if he’s simply so close to the edge that there’s little difference anymore. “I’m sorry, Miryam. But I’m very busy today. I have an important meeting later today, you see, and I need to prepare.”

Miryam shakes her head. “But this is _important_.”

“I really don’t have time right now, Miryam,” Jurian says. He’s rambling now. “But tomorrow, yes? Tomorrow, it will all be better. And then, we can talk. It will all be fine, you’ll see, just give me a day.”

Miryam is still shaking her head. Tomorrow, it will be too late. She’ll be married tomorrow, and telling Jurian after it already happened will just harden the blow. She can’t wait for whichever idea Jurian is chasing after currently, they have to talk _now_.

“No,” she says, racing to come up with a way to convince him.

But Jurian is already pushing past her. Miryam almost thinks he’ll leave right away, without a goodbye, but he pauses. Slowly, carefully, he reaches for her hand. She lets him.

“Don’t be angry,” he says softly. “I have to do this. For us, for our people.”

Suddenly, there are tears in her eyes. “I’m not angry,” she whispers, voice breaking. She is so very far from angry. There is a terrible tightness in her chest and she cannot get herself to speak the words she knows she should be saying. “Promise that you’ll be careful,” she chokes out. “I know things between us have been difficult, but I still care. I’ll always care.” She wants to say that she still loves him, but that would come across wrong. She can’t make him any hope where there is none, even though the lack of romantic feelings doesn’t mean she loves him any less. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Jurian says. “I’ll fix this. You’ll see.” He lets go of Miryam’s hands and walks over to the door.

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” Miryam calls after him. If she arrives early enough, news of her marriage to Drakon might not have broken yet. She might still be able to be the one to tell Jurian. It might still be fine.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Light torture (no real graphic descriptions, but I just thought I’d add a warning). If you don’t want to read it, skip the third and fifth scene.

## Chapter 45

It is Seraphim custom to hold weddings at noon, to say the wedding vows at the exact moment when the sun is at its zenith. Two hours before the ceremony will begin, Miryam stands in a dressing room in the palace and watches the wedding dress that is laid out before her.

When Miryam first realized she would need to wear a dress, she was worried, but after close inspection, she came to the conclusion that this one is fine. It’s the cut that makes the difference, she thinks. This dress is made of several layers of silk, cut to fall up to her ankles and wrists. Even the neckline is high, and Miryam has come to the conclusion that she is fine with dresses as long as they are no more revealing than the clothes she normally wears.

Miryam reaches out to touch it, but hesitates, finger hovering just over the fabric. It is beautiful, all rich crimson and gold. Artful embroidery in gold thread runs up from the hem and pale blue pearls are stitched onto the fabric.

"What is it?" Nehelle asks. She is sitting on the couch, dressed in an ivory gown that seems to glow against her dark skin. Next to her, the seamstress who brought the dress watches in silence.

Miryam frowns. "It's just..." It's just that Miryam finds expensive clothes unsettling. Beautiful they may be, but she can never quite get over the fact that they are worth more money than she is. Far more, in this specific case. "It's so expensive," she says.

"Will you feel better if I tell you that it's passed down and was not made specifically for you?" Nephelle asks. "It's custom for wedding gowns to be passed down and only altered to fit the current spouses."

This actually does calm Miryam. At least this dress that could probably buy food for an entire village for years was not made specifically for her, and will be used again after today.

"And if I tear it?" She asks. “Or get dirt on it.”

Nephelle laughs and shakes her head. "Just go ahead. It won’t fall apart in your hands."

Carefully, Miryam picks up the gown. The fabric is soft in her hands, the many layers shift against each other.

"Shall I help you get dressed, my lady?" The seamstress asks.

Miryam shakes her head. "No, thank you. I'd rather dress on my own." She smiles at the woman. “But thank you for your work.”

The seamstress bows and leaves the room. Miryam turns to Nephelle, who is still sprawled on a chair. "I'd really rather get dressed on my own," she says.

"This is not the type of dress you can get into on your own," Nephelle says.

Miryam turns the dress, and indeed, there are several tiny buttons at the back. Even without the buttons, the many layers would be near-impossible to navigate without getting tangles up hopelessly. Slowly, she reaches out to pull off her tunic, but pauses at the first button. The very thought of undressing before someone else makes her skin crawl. She doesn’t want to do this.

"Should I get someone else?" Nephelle asks.

"It's not..." Miryam hesitates. She does not want Nephelle to think she has a problem with her. On the contrary, she likes Nephelle. "I don't like undressing in front of people," she says.

It is not just because of the scars. They don't bother her much, actually, save for the memories they occasionally bring up. The way people look at her when they see, that mixture of horror and pity, is more unpleasant, but even that is usually bearable. But Miryam cannot stand how bare being naked makes her feel. The way she feels the stares on her skin, the way it always feels like she is a _thing_ put up on display for others to gawk at.

Nephelle nods. Thankfully, she doesn't seem offended. "Is there anyone you'd be comfortable with?" She asks. "Drakon?"

Miryam hesitates, then nods. Nephelle sticks her head out of the door and quietly speaks to someone outside before closing it again behind her.

“I could do your hair,” she offers. “If you want me to.”

Miryam smiles. “I’d like that,” she says. “And I’m sorry about…” She points vaguely at her clothes. “I know I’m being difficult.”

Nephelle motions for her to sit down on a chair and goes to stand behind her. “You aren’t being difficult,” she says as she gently pulls Miryam’s hair back. “And you shouldn’t feel obligated to do things you aren’t comfortable with.”

“Thank you,” Miryam says softly.

Nephelle nods and sets to work. She’s quick, fingers moving through the strands of Miryam’s hair with a surprising gentleness. She picks up strand after strand of Miryam’s hair, twisting them together with swift fingers. As she does, she keeps picking up pearls from a box and weaving them into the braid.

“These pearls are considered lucky,” she says and holds one out to Miryam in her open hand. They are the same pearls that have also been stitched on her wedding dress. “You can find them in a river close to here.”

“They’re beautiful,” Miryam says. They really are, shimmering pale blue in the light.

Nephelle closes her hand around the pearl and continues her work. Only a few minutes later, she steps back.

“Done,” she says with a smile. She picks up a looking glass from a cupboard. “Here, look.”

Miryam looks at her reflexion. Nephelle has woven her hair into a crown around her head in a complicated braid. The pearls shimmer softly in the dim light, almost like they glow from within, and make her look like she wears a crown of starlight.

“Beautiful,” Miryam whispers. She turns to Nephelle, smiling broadly. “This is wonderful. Where did you learn to braid hair like this?”

“My mother worked as Lady-in-waiting to our last Princess, Drakon’s mother.” Nephelle reaches out and pulls a strand of hair out of the braid so that it falls down loosely at the side of her face. “She taught me.”

“She must have been brilliant,” Miryam says.

She always wondered how Nephelle ended up in court and met Sinna. As far as Miryam knows, she isn’t noble, but if her mother was close to the royal family, it explains why Nephelle would also be given a position at court. There’s so much she doesn’t know about how the Erithian court works. She’ll have a lot of work to do after the wedding.

“Oh, she still is,” Nephelle says with a laugh. “She lives in the city, together with my stepfather. They used their savings to buy a house there after Drakon’s parents were killed.” She puts away her comb and carefully closes the box with the rest of the pearls. “They will be at the wedding, although I’m sure you will be too busy then. But they are at the palace quite often, so I’m sure you’ll meet them sometime.”

Miryam smiles. “I would love to.”

She was about to ask something else, but a knock on the door interrupts her. A moment later, Drakon pokes his head in.

“Took you long enough,” Nephelle says and grins. “What did you do, got lost in your own palace?”

Drakon grins and steps into the room. “I was getting dressed.”

Indeed, Drakon is already wearing his wedding attire. The colour scheme is the same as the one for Miryam’s clothes, all red and gold, offset with pale, shimmering pearls. Only the cut is different, and he wears a white sash with golden embroidery over it. A crown shimmers silver in his hair.

Miryam smiles at him. “You look beautiful,” she says. She suddenly has to fight the urge to reach out and touch him.

He smiles back at her, brightly enough that he seems to glow. “You too.”

“Yeah, you’re both very pretty.” Nephelle grins and nudges Drakon in the side before she walks over to the door. “I’ll leave you alone, then.”

Drakon waits until she closed the door behind herself before turning back to Miryam. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have considered that you wouldn’t be comfortable with having help getting dressed.”

“No problem.” Miryam just hopes Nephelle didn’t take it personally.

Slowly, she begins to unbutton her tunic. They’ve known each other long enough that Miryam undressing in front of him is… well, not easy, it is never easy, but certainly _easier_. Bearable. Besides, she did it before, a few months ago when they went swimming together.

With a quick motion, she pulls the tunic over her head. Drakon hides his reaction to her scars well, but of course, he has seen them before.

“Alright,” Miryam says, turning to her wedding gown. “Then let’s try this.”

Getting into the gown proves to be quite a challenge. Miryam keeps getting tangled up in the silk layers and Drakon has to help her out. By the time she actually managed to get into the dress, they are both laughing.

“This looks correct,” Miryam says, looking down at herself. “Doesn’t it?”

Drakon looks at the dress and grins. “I think so? But I swear, that dress is alive and trying to strangle us both.”

Miryam grins back and turns her back to Drakon so that he can close the buttons. His fingers are warm against her skin, his touch light. It takes only a moment before he steps back.

“Done,” he says.

Miryam turns around, layers of silk shifting around her as she does. Like she guessed, the dress covers her entirely, exposing almost no skin.

“You look stunning,” Drakon says and gently pushes a strand of hair out of her face.

Miryam stands up on her toes to kiss him. Drakon puts his hands on her waist and for a moment, they simply stand together closely, looking at each other. _We’ll be married in a few hours,_ Miryam thinks and smiles.

A knock sounds on the door, loud and impatient. “Drakon? Miryam?” Sinna’s voice sounds through the door. They grin at each other. “What are you two doing in there? We’re one a schedule, damnit!”

\----

“Nervous?” Nephelle asks. They are standing together in a hallway, waiting in front of the door that leads to the courtyard where the ceremony will be held, waiting for it to begin.

Drakon nods. He realizes that he is tugging around at his sleeve again and stops himself. The last thing he needs right now is to accidentally tear his clothes. “What if I mix up the vows?” He asks. “Or trip on the way?”

Nephelle puts a hand on his arm. “But you _won’t_ trip, or forget your vows.”

Drakon isn’t quite so sure of that. But before he can fret more, steps approach from the other side of the hallway. Drakon turns around and sees a red-skinned faerie walking towards him.

“Kiko!” He calls and jumps forward to wrap his arms around his friend. “You’re here!”

“Of course I’m here.” Kiko claps Drakon on the back. “Wouldn’t miss my best friend’s wedding, would I?” He lets go of Drakon and holds him at an arm’s length to take a proper look at him. “Looking good,” he says. “Where did you find that pretty sash?”

Drakon grins. “Family heirloom.” He reaches out to muss Kiko’s hair. “You’re quite well-dressed yourself, though.”

“Yeah.” Kiko taps a hand against one of the horns poking out of his curly hair. “Even polished those.”

Drakon just hugs him more closely. “I’m so happy you came.”

“Well, you needed a third witness, didn’t you?”

It is custom in Erithia to have three witnesses there for each spouse. Miryam chose Andromache, Mor and Tasia and Drakon wrote to Kiko, asking him to be witness for him together with Sinna and Nephelle.

The door opens for a second time, and this time, it’s Sinna who steps in. “Oh, good. You’re there,” she says with a smile at Kiko before turning to Drakon. “Ready?”

Drakon swallows and nods. His stomach twists with equal parts excitement and nervousness. What if he messes this up?

“Hey.” Sinna reaches out and takes his arm. Smiles. “You’re getting married today,” she says. “To a woman you love. Enjoy it.” Drakon smiles and nods.

A gong sounds in the courtyard and the doors open. Blinding light floods the room, making Drakon blink. He takes a deep breath, then steps out into the courtyard.

Hundreds of faces greet turn to stare at him. The courtyard is crowded, and all eyes are either on him, or on Miryam, who just stepped out from a door at the other side of the courtyard. The people at the forefront hold branches with long, broad leaves in their hand, forming a corridor for them to walk through.

At her side of the courtyard, Miryam hesitates for a moment, then starts walking. He thinks he can see her smile at him and smiles back quickly and sets into motion towards her. Sinna, Nephelle and Kiko follow him with a few feet distance and Drakon has to fight the urge to look back at them for reassurance. Instead, he keeps his eyes fixed on Miryam.

They meet in the centre of a courtyard, under the huge tree that grows there. It is almost two thousand years old, with a trunk wide enough that it would take ten people holding each other by the hands to reach across it and trees that reach almost up to the highest tower. Officiating a marriage under a tree is considered lucky, and this one is old enough that it has surely seen many marriages already.

Miryam tilts her head backwards to look up at the tree’s roof, then smiles at Drakon. Standing in the sunlight, dressed in her red-and-gold wedding gown and with pearls glowing in her hair, she looks radiant as the sun. Drakon gives her a shy smile. Together, they turn to the altar that has been erected at the foot of the tree. Laid out over the altar are a small sun cake (a traditional marriage dish in Erithia), a goblet of wine and an ornate ritual knife. Under it, a snow-white dove flaps its wings in a silver cave. The High Priestess is standing behind it.

“Prince Drakon of Erithia and Lady Miryam from the Black Land,” she says, stepping forward. “Have you come here today, of your own choice and will, to be united in marriage?”

“We have,” Miryam and Drakon reply in unison. Drakon dares a look at her and sees her smiling back at him.

“Then hold out your hands,” the High Priestess says, voice carrying easily over the assembled crowd.

They both do. Drakon offers his left hand and Miryam her right, their thumbs brush against each other as they stretch out their arms. The High Priestess picks up the knife from the table.

“Then be joined in blood,” she says and slices it over both their hands in a quick motion.

The cut is shallow, but it still stings. Immediately, blood wells up. Drakon turns his hand around and clasps it with Miryam’s, careful not to stain either of their clothes. Miryam squeezes his hand and turns to face him.

“With this,” she says, voice ringing out over the courtyard, “I promise you my love and trust. From this day forward to the end of time, we are one.”

“With this,” Drakon repeats after her, voice mercifully steady, “I promise you my love and trust. From this day forward to the end of time, we are one.”

Heart thundering in his chest, he reaches for the altar and picks up the sun cake, a small dough ball filled with sweet sesame.

“I offer you this dish,” he says and holds it out to Miryam. “For what is mine is also yours, from this day forward to the end of time.”

Miryam takes the sun cake from him, smiling at Drakon, and takes a bite. Then, she holds the second half of the cake back out to him.

“And I offer it back to you,” she says. “For what we have, we have to share, from this day forward to the end of time.”

Drakon takes the cake from her. Sweetness fills his mouth as he bites into it. Miryam’s grip on his hand tightens briefly and he is nearly certain her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for the goblet. “I offer you this wine,” she says, holding the goblet out to him. “For what is mine is also yours, from this day forward to the end of time.”

Drakon takes a sip of the wine, then holds the goblet out to Miryam. “And I offer it back to you, for I will never drink while you go thirsty, from this day forward until the end of time.”

Miryam drinks, then places the goblet back on the altar. The ceremony is almost done now, but one vow is still missing – the most important one, perhaps. Slowly, Drakon reaches for the cage with the dove and places it on the altar between them.

“While we are one in love and trust,” he says, “neither can exist without freedom.” He pulls back one of the two bars that keep the door to the cage closed. “With this, I promise to never bind, restrict or force you, for you are your own person and not mine to keep.”

Miryam smiles. She never said so, but he always knew how important this part of Erithia’s traditional wedding vows is to her. “And I, in turn, promise you the same,” she says, pulling back the second bar. “For we are both our own people, and neither shall ever limit the other’s freedom.”

The door to the cage opens. The dove cocks its head to the side once, then flaps its wings and flies out of the cage. It circles once around Miryam’s head, white wings shining in the sunlight, then shoots of into the sky.

The High Priestess smiles at them. “Then I pronounce you married,” she says.

A moment of silence follows. Then, the crowd breaks into applause.

\----

Everything’s ready.

The necessary preparations for his meeting with Clythia took most of the morning. He spent another couple of hours preparing his camp. He doubled the patrols and got everyone on high alert. If everything goes well today, Amarantha’s revenge won’t take long and his soldiers need to be prepared.

Today, for the first time ever, Jurian arrived twenty minutes early for his meeting with Clythia. They are meeting by the source of a small river. Jurian sits alone in the grass, his horse Bear tied to a tree a few feet away, and twists the bottle of wine he brought in his hands. He is hardly nervous, only strangely calm.

Clythia arrives a few minutes later. She doesn’t come by horse but winnows in. Fae so rarely ride. It’s like their ability to move through the world at will took away part of their connection to it.

“My dear,” she says, kneels down next to Jurian and kisses him. Jurian only barely manages to keep from gagging. _The last time,_ he thinks to himself, _this is the last time._

He holds out the bottle. “I brought the wine today,” he says and pours them two glasses. He holds one out to Clythia. “Here.” He makes himself smile. “For you.”

“Oh, thank you.” Clythia smiles brightly, oblivious to his unease as she usually is. “I can use something to drink right now. Had another argument with Mara, she didn’t want me to come. As if anyone could ever keep us apart.” She clinks her glass against his and smiles. “To us.”

“To us,” Jurian echoes, thinking that this is an irony if he ever saw one.

He forces himself not to look to closely as she takes a sip, instead concentrating on his own wine. He cannot arouse suspicions, not now.

Clythia takes another sip, then winces. “This tastes strange.” Jurian tenses, but she just shakes her head and laughs. “Human wine. Next time, I’ll bring the drinks again.”

If Jurian wasn’t so relieved, he would have been furious. Typical of Clythia to think that _he_ prefers Fae drinks over human ones. He doesn’t, but of course, Clythia would never care about that. She simply drains her glass and refills it, still grinning like this is all some kind of joke.

It doesn’t take long for the effect to set in. Her face twists in confusion, then pain, as she presses a hand against her stomach. Coughs. She takes another sip of her wine, then coughs again.

“Something…” She presses a hand against her stomach. “Something is wrong. Jurian, I…”

Jurian remains sitting in the grass as she doubles over in pain. When Clythia coughs this time, blood splatters into the grass and Jurian is a little worried. He never saw the effects ground ash wood has on a faerie, and since he wasn’t sure about the dosage, he decided to be safe and added a bit more. He just wants to stun her, though. For the message he wants to send, it simply wouldn’t do to have her die this quickly.

Fortunately for him, Clythia doesn’t die. She simply coughs up a bit more blood and convulses on the ground for a while before she finally falls still. Jurian gets up and carefully approaches. He gives Clythia a sharp kick in the side, but she doesn’t stir. Good.

Dragging her across the ground is far harder than Jurian imagined. He only has to walk for a short distance, but Clythia is far heavier than he estimated and her limp body is unwieldy and keeps getting caught on roots.

When he finally reaches the ash cross he prepared in the morning, he is out of breath. He drops Clythia to the ground and frowns. Getting her up there will be a challenge. He picks up the piece of rope he had lying at ready and ties it around the crossbeam so that it forms lashes for Clythia’s arms. Still, it takes him three attempts to get Clythia up. By the time he has her securely tied to the cross, she is stirring. He has to be quick now.

Still, Jurian hesitates as he picks up the ash spikes he carved from branches earlier. He knows this is necessary if he wants to keep Clythia’s powers contained, but something in him hesitates. Until he remembers his friends, mutilated and spiked to stakes by Amarantha. He angles the spike and begins.

Clythia wakes at the second spike. She begins to thrash and scream, but Jurian doesn’t stop. He feels strangely detached from his body, like he is watching his hands move from the outside, without any real control over his movements. Three spikes later, Jurian is done. His hands are bloody, and he looks down at them, almost surprised that they belong to him. They don’t seem like his hands at all.

“Jurian,” Clythia moans. Her eyes crack open, but her head remains hanging limply to the side. “Jurian, what are you doing?”

“Do you remember our second meeting?” Jurian asks. “The meeting when you lured me out of my camp and kept me busy while your _sister_ slaughtered my entire camp?”

Clythia shakes her head ever so slightly. “Please…” She whispers.

“When I got back,” Jurian presses on, “my soldiers were dead. All of them. But my commanders, the ones I had been closest to… they had been tortured. Spiked to stakes and left for me to find.” He steps forward. Fury is burning in him like fire, drowning out all other feelings. “You and your sister, you did that. You took everything from me.”

Clythia’s eyes widen. “No,” she whispers. Even now, at the very end, she still seems unwilling to grasp the truth of their situation. “I just wanted to save you. I did it for _us_.”

_There is no us_ , Jurian thinks and draws his knife. “Then consider this a sign of my _gratitude_ ,” he says and slices the knife over her arm. When she screams, it sounds like revenge.

\----

Now that the official part of the ceremony is over, the celebration has started. Long tables with an assortment of different kinds of food have been laid out and in the centre of the courtyard, space has been cleared for dancing. Miryam and Drakon are walking around, still hand in hand, accepting congratulations and talking to guests.

Miryam picks up another sun cake from one of the plates standing around and plops it into her mouth. It tastes wonderfully sweet and she decides that this is her new favourite food. It’s been a long time since she’s been this happy, or felt this light.

A green-skinned faerie with six spindly arms and roots growing from her head steps forward and bows to them. Miryam seems to remember her as a member of Drakon’s council. (She makes a mental note to learn the names as soon as possible.)

“Congratulations on the marriage, Your Highness,” she says.

“Thank you, Dina,” Drakon says with a smile.

Dina turns to Miryam and inclines her head again. “How do you like Erithia so far, Princess?”

Getting used to that title will take a while. Being called “Lady” was strange enough already, but “Princess” is another step further. And the bowing…

“It’s very beautiful,” Miryam says and smiles. “I still have much to learn about the workings of your court, of course.”

Dina smiles. “I can imagine.” She inclines her head another time and retreats.

Miryam picks up another sun cake. “I really love those,” she tells Drakon.

He takes up a cake of his own. “Do you want to dance?”

Miryam looks to the dancing floor. She knows the dance, at least in some variation, but there are some twists in this version that are unfamiliar to her. Which might be because those variations seem to rely heavily on the dancing partners having wings, since part of the dance takes place in the air. Mor and Andromache are dancing as well, though, and they simply leave out the flying part, so it seems possible.

“Sure,” she says. “It looks fun.”

Together, they walk over to the dance floor but wait at the side for the musicians to begin the next song. When they do, they step forward, other pairs making space for them.

The music begins slowly, allowing them to take the first few steps more slowly. Then, the music quickens and so do their steps. Miryam has never been the most sure-footed dancer, but Drakon leads the way with the quiet confidence of years of practice (and gracefully ignores the times Miryam steps on his feet).

They twirl over the dancing floor, moving closer and closer together. All around them, other pairs are dancing, but right now, they might as well have been the only two people in the world. Miryam feels like her heart is beating in tact with the music as it moves towards its crescendo.

“You trust me?” Drakon asks.

“Yes,” Miryam answers breathlessly.

Drakon moves his hands to her waist. As the pairs around them take to the air, he flares his wings and lifts them both off the ground. Air rushes past Miryam’s face and she yelps. Then, she is weightless, spinning through the air.

“All good?” Drakon asks as they spin through the air, twist around each other again and again.

Miryam tilts her head backwards and laughs. She loves flying, loves the feeling of weightlessness, of absolute freedom. The dance ends far too soon and Drakon lowers them back to the ground.

“You want to go again?” Drakon asks. He is out of breath but smiling with a giddiness that is certainly reflected on Miryam’s face.

She nods. “Of course!”

They dance until they are both out of breath and sore. Only then do they step off the dancing floor, laughing and clinging to each other, and walk over to the food. Miryam eats until her stomach hurts. She only notices that the sun has already set when they pause next to one of the lampions that have been set up all over the courtyard.

“Drakon,” she says softly, “I think it’s time.”

Yesterday, Ravenia sent a message that she wants Drakon to meet her two hours after sunset. Miryam and Drakon both decided to go, although neither of them even pretended that there is a sensible reason behind it. No, they just really want to see the look on Ravenia’s face when she finds out what they did. Miryam isn’t entirely sure why she wants to go so badly. Maybe it is spite. Or she wants to proof to herself that she can face Ravenia and walk away victorious, that no matter how scared she may be, she can and will win this.

Drakon looks up at the sky. “Probably.”

Fortunately for them, it is tradition in Erithia for the couple to sneak away at their own marriage. Whoever notices that they are gone first is considered lucky for the next year. So when they simply vanish off their own wedding, no one will think anything of it.

“I’ll get us a distraction, then,” Miryam says.

Drakon nods and wraps his arms around her. Miryam picks out two strings across the room and twists them together. She doesn’t use enough power for them to hold, and as soon as she lets go, they spring apart. Sparks fly through the air and those are actually visible to the bystanders. People point, stop and stare. No one pays attention to them.

“Now,” Miryam whispers to Drakon.

He flares his wings and sends them both shooting into the air. For a moment, Miryam sees the celebration stretching out below. Then, Drakon turns right and they are gone over the edge of the roof.

Drakon lands on a windowsill on the other side of the palace. He flares his wings wide for balance, Miryam grips for the window frame. The ground is very far below. _A good thing I’m not scared of heights,_ Miryam thinks.

“You take the wards, I deal with the lock?” Drakon asks and fishes a piece of wire out of his pocket.

“Sure.” Miryam flares her hands and two of the strings that form the wards move apart to create an opening. She grins. “Done.”

“Oh.” Drakon picks up his wire and sets to work on the lock. “We’re breaking into our own palace,” he mutters as the lock clicks and the window springs open.

“Fun, right?” Miryam asks and slides into the room. Drakon has a bit more difficulty climbing in, his wings keep getting in the way.

“I have clothes prepared,” he says once he’s inside and points to a pile that’s lying on a table. “So we won’t end up ruining these.”

Getting out of the dress turns out to be nearly as difficult as getting in. It is a small relief that Drakon struggles almost as much. In the end, they both have to help each other out of their clothes before they can change into something less formal.

“I’ll open us a window in the anti-winnowing wards,” Miryam says.

She already identified the wards she needs to work on, but opening them without doing any permanent damage takes a bit longer. When she is finally done, she nods to Drakon and he winnows them both away.

They land just outside of the wards surrounding the Lake Palace. Drakon straightens his clothes and smiles at her.

“I’d say that was an expertly done sneak-out.”

Miryam nods and looks over the dark lake towards the towering palace. She wonders if Ravenia is already there, if she brought Artax.

It has been years since Miryam last saw her. There was that one meeting at the very beginning of the war, the failed attempt to end the fighting, but beyond that, they had no reason to meet. Leaders of the Alliance and Loyalists respectively they might be, might have this entire war stretched out between them, but they only ever faced each other through others.

Miryam does her best to pretend her heart isn’t thundering in her chest like it wants to jump right out and run away as she walks up to the Lake Palace together with Drakon. She is terrified, and beyond angry that she is. To be afraid of Ravenia means to give her power, and Miryam refuses to do that. Today, she wins. And she _will_ feel like it.

She holds her hand up over the crystal bowl at the entrance, watches blood drip into it and swears neutrality. Light shoots into the air and the wards around the palace quiver. Next to her, Drakon seems increasingly nervous.

Miryam reaches for his hand. “She can’t do anything to us,” she says softly. “Today, we win.”

Drakon nods and squeezes her hand. Together, they walk into the palace’s foyer. The door swings open and there, just on the other side of the room, wait Ravenia and Artax.

Miryam’s resolve not to be afraid lasts only for three frantic heartbeats. Her entire body seizes up, every instinct screams at her to cower. But she won’t. Never again. She forces her spine to straighten, calm to fill her veins.

Both Ravenia and Artax are entirely still. They are both dressed in their finery, Ravenia in court clothes and Artax in the Guild’s colours. They look like statues, like the stuff of Miryam’s every nightmare.

Ravenia’s dark eyes linger on Miryam for a moment and she stares back as coolly as she can manage. After what seems like an eternity, Ravenia finally turns her focus on Drakon.

“I see you’ve brought reinforcement,” she says. “I can’t say I’m surprised you are hiding behind that mortal, but surely you know that she won’t be able to help you here. The fact that you’re here alone is proof that you are defeated.”

“I didn’t come here to marry you,” Drakon says. Miryam is proud of how resolute he sounds, even though she can sense his fear. “I came to tell you that I won’t.”

Ravenia gives him a sharp smile. “Surely Your Highness remembers the punishments for breaking a contract.”

_Today, we win,_ Miryam thinks and smiles back at Ravenia. “Surely Your Majesty remembers that this particular contract allows exceptions.”

Momentary confusion flickers over Ravenia’s face, but she quickly reins it in. Artax looks between Miryam and Drakon, though, frowning. Then, his eyes widen, something like shock flickering over his features.

“Your Majesty – “ he begins, stepping forward.

“We married,” Drakon says, reaching for Miryam’s hand.

“And we are mates,” she adds sweetly. “So you’ll find, _Ravenia_ , that your precious marriage contract is no longer worth the parchment it’s written on.”

Ravenia stares at her. “You…” It’s the first time Miryam ever heard her fumble for words. “There’s no way this is real! You cheated.”

Artax is watching her, now, unblinking. “You forged it. The mating bond.”

Miryam squeezes Drakon’s hand and looks between the two people she hates most in the world. Smiles. “But surely you know that mating bonds are the will of the Cauldron,” she says. “It’s fate. If you’ve got a problem with it, you ought to take it up with the Mother.”

Artax steps forward, quick as lightning. Suddenly, the air is heavy with his power. Around them, the wards tremble in warning. “You arrogant little piece of trash, who do you think you are? I’m going to - “

“Go on,” Miryam interrupts. Her heart is thundering, but she still steps forward. “Attack me while under a neutrality spell. Go right ahead and see what it gets you.” Adrenalin is thrumming through her veins and she almost hopes that Artax will start this fight.

“Artax,” Ravenia snaps at him when he doesn’t step back immediately.

That one word is all it takes. His power deflates and he lowers his head, steps back to his position a step behind Ravenia. It’s like a weight vanished from over them, like the air has finally become breathable again.

Ravenia turns her attention on Miryam and Drakon. “Do not think I will simply let this slide,” she says. Her voice is a knife that cuts through the air. “You might have won today, but be assured that you will pay tomorrow.”

Drakon flinches slightly, but Miryam meets her gaze calmly. “You’re the only one who’ll pay,” she says. “I will make sure of it.”

Ravenia snorts. Without another word, she storms past them and out of the room. Artax follows closely behind, not without shooting a look that promises vengeance at Miryam.

\----

There’s blood on Jurian’s hands, covering his skin up to his elbows. Blood splattered all over his clothes. In some places, it already dried rusty brown, in others, it is still bright red.

Bile rises in Jurian’s throat, he forces it back down. He has been covered in more blood than that and it’s been years since it last bothered him. There’s no reason this should be different. No reason the blood should feel like a stain this time.

He breathes slowly through his mouth, careful to avoid the stench of blood in the air, and turns around to take one last look at Clythia. Now that she is hanging limply on the ash cross, she no longer looks so high and mighty. There’s no way anyone could imagine she ever made his life this terrible.

Jurian turns around and walks back to Bear. The horse shies away from the blood on his clothes, shaking its huge, fuzzy head, but a murmured word in its ear calms it. Jurian climbs into the saddle and rides back to his camp.

The soldiers at duty look at him strangely when they see him covered in blood like this, but no one asks what happened. Without a word to anyone, Jurian returns to his tent. He methodically strips off his clothes, dips a piece of cloth into a bucket of water that stands ready and begins to clean himself. Soon, the water has turned deep pink.

Jurian finds new clothes in his chest and dresses. Then, he sits down at his desk and begins a note. It’s quick, only a couple of sentences.

_Come to the source of the river Thexi. You’ll find something that belongs to you and that you should have taken better care of. Jurian._

\----

“There’s something I want to show you,” Drakon says. They are standing together on the bridge outside of the Lake Palace, looking out at the dark water. “It’s… it’s the reason for this entire matter.” He gestures vaguely in the direction Ravenia stormed off in.

Miryam arches an eyebrow. “Consider me intrigued.”

She has been trying to figure out the reason for Ravenia’s interest in Drakon for years now. So far, she hasn’t been able to come up with a single theory. But maybe now that they are married, Drakon is finally allowed to tell her.

Together, they walk out of the room and towards the edge of the wards. As soon as they are outside, Drakon winnows them both away.

They reappear in a dark forest. It’s a jungle, but not one Miryam recognizes. Not Erithia, unless she’s sorely mistaken. The plants are different, the trees bigger and with broader leaves. All around them, flowers grow, their petals glowing blue, red and orange in the moonlight. Miryam reaches out for the closest plant, a glowing pink orchid, and reaches out for it. She’s never seen bioluminescent plants before.

Only then does she notice the strings. There are many of them here, far more than anywhere else. This might just be the biggest concentration of strings Miryam has ever seen occurring naturally. The very air seems to be vibrating with magic.

Miryam turns around to Drakon, who is watching her. “Where are we?” She asks.

“An island,” Drakon says. “About a hundred miles off the Continent’s eastern coast.”

Miryam frowns. “I don’t hear the ocean.”

“It’s a big island – about half the size of Prythian – and we are near the centre.”

Miryam gapes at him. “Half the size of…” She runs a hand through her hair and shakes her head. “This is the secret? An island _half the size of Prythian_ no one knows about?”

Drakon winces. “It’s _part_ of the secret.” He plucks one of the flowers from a bush and puts it behind Miryam’s ear. “The less weird part, I’m afraid.”

The less weird part? Well, Miryam’s day is certainly taking an interesting turn. “Go on,” she says, looking around this strange, magical island. “It takes more than a little weirdness to shock me,” she teases.

Drakon makes a face that can only be interpreted as extreme doubt. It’s not reassuring.

“This is Cretea,” he says.

“Cretea,” Miryam repeats. The name sounds familiar, but she can’t quite place it. She knows all the Continental countries, and this isn’t one of them. But what… And then, she remembers. “Cretea as in the island that the Mother used as her seat of power in your myths?” She asks slowly. “Cretea as in the island she allegedly created and that vanished after her disappearance? _That_ Cretea?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

Miryam nods slowly. Up until ten minutes ago, she would have argued that Cretea doesn’t exist and likely never did. Now she is standing on it. Wonderful. Maybe she should sit down.

“And how did you end up knowing the location of an island that Fae across the world have been searching for millennia?” She asks.

Drakon starts playing around with the hem of his clothes. “It’s a bit of a long story,” he says. “And there’s something else I wanted to show you. I’ll tell you on the way.”

Miryam nods and together, they set off. Drakon seems to know where they are going, although Miryam cannot make out any path in the jungle they landed in.

Cretea is beautiful in an eery, strange way. Miryam barely dares to step anywhere for fear of accidentally destroying something, of leaving a stain on this place. Like most humans, doesn’t believe in gods, but she can easily understand why the Fae might have once looked at this place and concluded that it must have been home to something divine.

“What do you know of the story surrounding Cretea and the Mother?” Drakon asks.

“Only the barest details, really.”

She knows enough to understand the basics of the Fae’s religion and growing up, she heard the stories in passing a few times, but they never really interested her. What use are gods when you are getting enslaved in their name, when they never move to interfere while you are beaten and murdered?

“I’ll shorten the beginning, then,” Drakon says. “All that’s important about it for this particular story is that the Mother created this world, using the Cauldron as its anchor, and then made all kinds of different creatures to live on it, each with their own strengths so that they might learn from each other.”

Miryam nods. In the Black Land, they tell the story differently. There, the Mother loved some of the creatures she made better than others, created some to rule and others to be rules. She likes the Seraphim version better, although it still doesn’t make her particularly fond of this goddess of theirs.

“After that work was done,” Drakon continues, “and things had settled in our world, the Mother settled down. She created an island for herself, where she might live away from the dealings of the world, and where her people might seek her out to ask for help.”

_She should have helped_ my _people,_ Miryam thinks, but doesn’t say it. This is, after all, only a story.

“One of the people who came to her,” Drakon continues, “was a Fae named Daín. There are different versions of how exactly it went, but fact is that him and the Mother fell in love. She made him into her consort and gifted him a sword she had created from the Cauldron. A blade they called Godmaker, because it gave Daín powers larger than those of an ordinary Fae as well as a longer life. They whoever wielded this sword was undefeatable, that simply being touched by its blade meant to lose your soul.”

Above them, a bird lets out a shill scream and Miryam looks up just in time to see a green tail vanish in the leaves.

“For a millennium or two, all went well,” Drakon says. “But then, an enemy rose up. A witcher who envied the Mother her power.”

“That does sound like something a witcher might do,” Miryam says, thinking of Artax.

“He killed Daín,” Drakon says, “and stole his sword. The Mother caught and punished him, but even she could not bring Daín back and without him, she had lost her will to live in this world. She vanished and never returned.”

He stops before a rough stone wall that looms up in front of them. Only at the second look does Miryam notice the door the bronze door that is laid into the rock. Drakon fishes around in his pocket and produces an ancient-looking iron key.

“And what do you have to do with all that?” Miryam asks.

“My ancestors were close followers of the Mother,” Drakon says. “Confidants of hers, almost. Before the Mother vanished, she cast spells around Cretea to hide it from anyone who might go looking for it, and tasked my family with its protection.”

Miryam rubs her neck. _I don’t believe in gods, though_ , she thinks. “I’ve never heard this version of the story before,” she says.

“Because no one knows. No one but the members of my family and the current High Priestess are allowed to know about Cretea.”

“Sounds like a lot of pressure,” Miryam mutters. And it means that Drakon’s family is way older – and way stranger – than she would have thought possible. If they were around for the time when the Mother allegedly lived, that means Drakon’s family if roughly ten thousand years old. “And a lot of trouble to go through for an island.”

“It’s not about the island,” Drakon says and pulls the door open.

It must have been inlaid with lead, some protective spells on top of it, because as soon as it opens, a wave of power swaps out of the hole yawning behind. Miryam flinches back.

Never, not once in her life, has she felt this much power. It makes the hairs on her entire body stand up. A shiver runs down her spine and her own power trembles – whether in excitement or fear, she can’t tell. Even the strings around her seem nervous. They constantly move around, mingle with each other and break apart again. The entire commotion gives Miryam a headache.

“It’s about the sword,” Drakon says. The power in the air seems to bother him less, either because he doesn’t feel it as much as she does, or because he is used to it. “That’s what’s hidden here, that’s what my family is charged to protect. And that’s what Ravenia is after.”

Miryam can barely concentrate on his words over the power that is still thrumming through the air. “You mean you have this sword _in here_?” She asks. Her fingers are trembling.

Drakon nods. “You want to see it?”

Of course Miryam wants to see it.

Walking into the cave is like swimming against a strong current. The power in the air makes it hard to breathe and Miryam grips Drakon’s hand so tightly it probably hurts. The tunnel is lit by bioluminescent plants that cast an eery light into the corridor. It takes a bent and they are standing near an artfully carved doorway. Magic is shimmering in it, some kind of ward. Drakon stops pauses.

“There’s a spell,” he says. “To keep out intruders. You need to face your greatest fear.”

Miryam nods. “That’s no problem.”

Drakon frowns. Clearly, this is not the type of response he was expecting. “Are you sure?” He asks.

“Yes.” Miryam takes a deep breath and steps forward. “I did that already.”

Mist rises in the doorway. It hangs in the air for a moment, then forms a figure. For the second time in one evening, Miryam comes face to face with Ravenia. This time, flames flicker around the queen’s fingers and she holds a short spear in her hand.

“You can’t go through here,” she says. “You are too scared.”

“Scared or not, I’m still winning against you.” Miryam steps forward and meets the illusion’s dark eyes. (It is far easier than with the _real_ Ravenia.) “And now get out of my way.”

Ravenia remains standing in the doorway for a moment longer, then, the mist crumbles. Miryam smiles over her shoulder at Drakon and walks through the doorway.

The room she steps into is empty, save for a sword that’s laid out in its centre. It is the epicentre of the power in the air, radiating so much sheer power that it slams into Miryam like a physical blow. Even the strings shy away from it, giving it a wide berth. Miryam realizes she is trembling. Her power flares painfully and the power is pressing against so hard she can barely breath.

It’s simply too much.

Miryam turns around and stumbles back out of the room, scattering the mist in the doorway. She nearly stumbles into Drakon’s arms, who catches her before she can fall.

“Miryam.” He grips her by the arms to steady her. “What happened?”

Miryam can only shake her head. She is gasping for air.

“I don’t believe this!” A new voice interrupts.

Miryam yelps and spins around, only to come face to face with a dark-haired man. “Ghost!” She rubs a hand over her face. “What… What are you doing here?”

“I have been here for the last couple of millennia,” Ghost says with a jerky shrug. “You are the one who’s new.” He turns to Drakon. “You married?”

“Yes.” Drakon reaches for her hand. “Miryam, is everything alright?”

She nods. Now that she is a bit further away from the sword, she can actually breathe again. “Just a bit much power,” she says and turns to Ghost. “And what do you mean you’ve been here for millennia?”

“I’m trapped here,” Ghost says. “Have been for a while. It’s punishment.”

Miryam stares between him and Drakon. Millennia. He has been trapped here for _millennia_. Alone, in this cave. What kind of crime could warrant such a punishment?

“Hasn’t Drakon told you?” Ghost asks. “I’m the big bad witcher who stole the sword.” His voice is biting with sarcasm. “And because of that, I obviously deserve eternal imprisonment. Who cares about my reasons?” Something in his tone shifts as he continues, like the edge breaks and leaves only raw splinters behind. “So I’ve been stuck here. For several millennia, alone. Fun, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Miryam very badly wants to reach for his hand or squeeze his shoulder in comfort, but he’s incorporeal, so that option falls flat. “That’s terrible.” She turns to Drakon. “Can’t we do anything about this?”

Drakon looks down at his shoes. “Ghost is tied to the sword,” he says. “I thought maybe you could change the bond so that he can at least move freely around Cretea.” He shrugs a bit helplessly. “I had meant to ask you, but after it almost went wrong that one time, I couldn’t take the sword off Cretea again and I wasn’t allowed to bring you here.”

It takes Miryam a moment to catch on to what Drakon is implying. Looking back, she should have probably figured it out earlier, but she was a little caught up on the fact that her partner – husband, she will have to get used to calling him that – comes from a family that apparently owns both the most sacred island in the entire Fae mythology and the most powerful magical item Miryam has ever seen.

“You mean you took this sword off Cretea so that I could talk to Ghost?” She asks slowly. “If… if Ravenia had gotten her hands on that sword, you…” She shakes her head and runs a hand through her hair.

Drakon steps from one foot to the other. “I was careful,” he says. “And I couldn’t let you die.”

Miryam sighs. “I love you,” she says softly. (Ghost makes a noise that sounds like _aww_.) “And obviously, I’m grateful that you and Ghost helped me and I didn’t _die_.” She really is. But especially now that they're married, there's something she needs to make clear before anything like this happens again and goes badly. She squeezes Drakon's hand and waits until he looks up before she continues, “But you have to promise me that you won’t ever do anything that could cost us this war. Not for me.”


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mentions of torture in scene 2 and 3

## Chapter 46

A knock sounds on the door, making Miryam jolt awake. She blinks up at the ceiling, trying to place the artfully carved wood that most certainly does not belong to her room in Telique. A moment later, she remembers where she is. Sajeo, Erithia’s capital. Her new home.

She pushes herself up on her elbows and looks over to Drakon, who is pressing his face into his pillow and seems to be fighting against waking up. Miryam smiles and crawls over to him. (They left some free space between them at night. Since they never spent the night together, before, they opted to take it slow and start by simply sleeping in the same bed with a bit of space between them.)

“Good morning,” Miryam says and presses a kiss on Drakon’s neck.

“Morning,” Drakon says into his pillow, but he lifts his head to kiss her back. He looks cute with his hair all mussed from sleep. Her husband. She’ll have to get used to thinking of him as that.

The knock on the door sounds again, more insistent this time. Drakon picks up a clock from the bedside and groans.

“You’d think they could at least leave us be until midday on the day after our wedding.”

Miryam nods. It’s seven in the morning, which is far later than the time she usually wakes, but they only returned to Sajeo four hours ago. They spent most of the night on Cretea, wandering around the island, sitting by a lake with silver water and talking.

She pushes her blanket away and sits up straighter. “This might be important.”

Drakon sighs. “I’m sure it is,” he says, sounding defeated. (After six years of war, they are both used to short nights, but unlike Miryam, Drakon is actually fond of sleeping.) “We’re coming,” he calls to the intruder at the door. “Just give us a moment to get dressed.”

Miryam is already on her feet, searching for more suitable clothes. Her nightclothes aren’t exactly unsuitable, since they are not so different from some of her day clothes, but she _knows_ that they are nightclothes and that means she needs something else to wear. She finds a tunic, pants and an overcoat laid out on a chair and quickly changes. By the time she is done, Drakon at least managed to get out of bed.

Still barefoot, Miryam walks over to the door, turns the key and opens it. Sinna is already dressed in her armour and stepping from one foot to another in the corridor. When she sees Miryam, she inclines her head.

“Princess.”

Miryam frowns. “Why do you call me Princess?” She asks. “You don’t even call Drakon _Prince_.”

Sinna shrugs and grins. “Didn’t know if you’d care. Makes it easier that you don’t, though.”

Miryam smiles and steps aside, allowing Sinna to enter. She feels the General watching her – not that she can blame her. Her and Sinna don’t know each other all that well. Most of their meetings have been brief, and Sinna isn’t nearly as approachable as Nephelle. What she knows of Sinna, she respects – and she knows that Drakon considers her family – and she is sure that they will get to know each other better over time.

“Morning Sinna,” Drakon says from where he’s sitting on the bed. Miryam closes the door again and goes looking for her shoes.

“Had a good night?” Sinna asks and musses Drakon’s hair in passing before throwing his wardrobe open.

“Very.” Drakon smiles at Miryam. “We spent most of the time walking around, talking.”

Sinna nods. She picks a tunic and a coat out of the wardrobe and tosses them at Drakon. Pants follow. “You need to get dressed,” she says. “We have a problem.”

Drakon is already reaching for his clothes before she has finished the sentence. Any traces of tiredness are gone in a heartbeat. Standing on one leg, shoe in hand, Miryam pauses.

“What happened?” She asks.

“Ravenia’s army marches north, led by Artax” Sinna says. She keeps her back turned to them, presumably to allow Drakon privacy while getting dressed. “Our forces have been ordered to the Callian Pass to intercept them. We are to hold them back until reinforcements arrive to ambush them from behind.”

Drakon closes his coat and fishes out his boots from under his bed. “Have you already informed the other generals?”

“Yes. And I’m going to join them in a moment.” Sinna taps her foot. “You two are needed in Telique. The council is meeting and your presence has been requested.”

Miryam’s head is whirring. Ravenia’s army on the march, Artax with it. She wonders if this is in response to their defiance, or if she always planned it and had simply meant to wait until after the marriage. Either way, it will mean a busy day. And she had meant to meet Jurian in the morning.

That meeting is already impossible and she knows it. There might have been a time when she could have ignored the council, or kept them waiting, but that time is long gone. If there is a meeting, she has to be there. All that’s left to do is to go see Jurian afterwards and hope that it won’t be too late by then.

She sighs. “I need court clothes,” she says. “Give me a moment.”

The council chamber is buzzing with noise by the time Miryam and Drakon arrive. When they enter, all eyes turn to them, which is generally a bad sign. People only stare like that when there’s a reason, and in Continental politics, those reasons are rarely good. For a moment, silence reins. Then, Zeku steps forward. His face is serious and he doesn’t even bother with an introduction before getting to the point.

“You married?” He asks, looking between them. He sounds nowhere near as pleased as he should, considering that he spent the past months trying to convince her to do just that.

“Yes, I – “

“Now that we are all here,” Shey interrupts from where he is already sitting at the table, “perhaps we ought to begin.”

Miryam and Zeku look at each other for a moment longer, then Zeku inclines his head and stalks over to his seat at the table. Miryam exchanges a look with Drakon, who seems bewildered, then walks over to the table with him. They sit down side by side.

“Before we begin, Drakon and I would like to make an announcement,” Miryam says and reaches for his hand.

He smiles back at her. “I’m sure some of you already heard the news, but Miryam and I got married yesterday.”

Murmurs rise around the table.

Miryam gives the assembles crowd her best rueful smile. “We apologize for not inviting any of you,” she says, although they technically did invite Andromache, “but the decision was made quickly. We found out we were mates and didn’t want to wait. As soon as this war is over, we will hold an official celebration.”

She knew in advance that not sending invites to the other Alliance members would border on a political affront. But the short timeframe would never have been enough to prepare a celebration of the necessary scale. Being able to point to a mating bond should have helped with the fallout – the number of things that suddenly become acceptable when one has a mating bond is stunning – but it doesn’t seem to work. The stares continue, as do the murmurs.

The meeting in itself is unspectacular. They go over the plans concerning the Callian pass again to make it official, then deal with a few other minor annoyances. However, the way the other councilmembers keep looking at her more than worries Miryam. Something is clearly wrong, but usually, she can at least tell _why_ the council is annoyed with her. Today, they are worryingly upset over something that, by all accounts, shouldn’t be that big a problem, though.

The moment the meeting ends, Zeku appears next to Miryam’s chair. “A word,” he says. His tone is clipped and his blue skin looks dark as a storm-swept sea.

Miryam exchanges a look with Drakon who has half-risen in his chair. She is about to ask him to accompany them – now that they’re married, she’ll have to involve him more in her political struggles – but Zeku speaks before she gets the chance.

“Alone,” he says with a pointed look at Drakon.

Drakon seems torn between confusion and hurt, but he nods. “I’ll wait here.”

Miryam is inclined to tell Zeku that he can have _a word_ with himself if he’s going to be so impolite, but she really shouldn’t offend her closest Fae ally right now. She allows Zeku to lead her out of the room and pretends that his grip on her arm isn’t far too tight for her liking. They choose the nearest private meeting chamber. Almost as soon as the door has closed behind them, wards snapping in place around the room, Zeku whirls around to Miryam.

“What were you _thinking_?” He snaps.

“With what?” Miryam asks back. “Because right now, I have no idea why you are acting like I did you some grievous injustice.” After all, she did exactly what he wanted her to. He really has no right to be this angry with her over it.

“Oh, don’t play games with me,” Zeku snaps. His voice is getting louder. “You _married Drakon._ ” He shakes his head. “Why? Do you have a death wish?”

He is almost yelling, now and Miryam has to fight against two opposing instincts to the situation of being yelled at by a Fae. The first is to cower, try to become as invisible as possible, which experience taught her is the best way to survive situations like this. Unfortunately, her power isn’t one for cowering. Sensing her unease, it stirs and begins to push back against her hold.

Since Miryam neither wants to shrink back before Zeku nor attack him, she suppresses both instincts and straightens. “The only thing I’m wishing for right now,” she says as calmly as she can manage, “is for you to stop speaking to me that way. You told me to marry into royalty, I did.”

Zeku shakes his head, skin turning a greyer shade of blue. At least he seems to get his anger more under control, and when he speaks again, his voice is calmer. “Not Drakon, though,” he says. “Anyone else. But surely you must have realized that it could not be Drakon you married.”

Miryam’s stomach drops. No. This problem was supposed to be over and done with, at least for a while. Marrying Drakon was supposed to get the Alliance off her back at least for a while. It can’t have made it _worse_.

“Why not?” She asks in a small voice. “I love him. He’s my age, and he’s someone I can actually imagine…” Someone she can imagine spending the rest of her life with. But none of these arguments hold any weight in Continental politics. Only one thing might. “We are mates,” she says.

“And you expect me to believe that?” Zeku asks and shakes his head before Miryam can reply. “You aren’t this blind,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. “There is no way you can be this blind.” When Miryam doesn’t reply, he slumps down on a chair. “You know,” he says, “the impression Drakon gives off.”

Miryam lifts her chin. “I know that Drakon is kind and brave and brilliant. If there is anything else, you’ll have to tell me.”

Zeku shakes his head like she is being difficult. “Drakon is a _child_ ,” he says. “Brilliant in his own areas he might be, but he is also naïve and hopelessly overwhelmed when it comes to Continental politics. And believe me, that counts far more here.” He gives Miryam a sharp look. “Most people don’t even believe he’s truly in charge of his country as it is.”

Miryam crosses her arms. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

She hates when people act like Drakon is a naïve idiot. Just because he isn’t violent or particularly outgoing doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of thinking for himself. And just because he chooses to see the good in people doesn’t make him too blind to see the fact that there’s also bad.

“He isn’t stupid,” she adds.

“No, but I’m beginning to think you might be.” Now, Zeku’s anger is back, although it’s less forceful than last time. “What kind of impression do you think this marriage will give off? That of all the people you could have chosen, you pick the one who is youngest and easiest to manipulate.”

Miryam stares back at him. “I’m not - You don’t think that – “ She shakes her head. “You _can’t_ think that I manipulated Drakon into marrying me.”

Zeku shrugs. “Me and the entire Continent.”

Miryam gapes and shakes her head again. People can’t honestly think that. Yes, she may not always be honest, and yes, there is more to this marriage than Drakon and her are willing to tell, but she could never be this cold, this calculating. (Well, if she’s being entirely honest, she probably _could_ , if it ever came down to it. She wouldn’t do it to Drakon, though.)

“You just effectively put yourself in charge of a country, Miryam,” Zeku says. “And you expect me to believe you didn’t realize?”

Miryam, embarrassing as it now seems, really did not realize it. With all that was going on in the past few days, she didn’t exactly wait around and consider the implications of her actions. In all honesty, she still finds the entire problem ridiculous.

“It’s not like Drakon simply disappeared, you know?” She says. “He’s still Prince, with more political power than me.”

She doesn’t even plan to hold much political power in Erithia. She will be expected to be there for a few official functions and Drakon and she assumes she will be helping him with some of his plans. But that doesn’t mean she actually plans to _rule_. It’s Drakon’s country, Drakon’s people, and while she will not neglect her duties, she doesn’t feel like she has any right to truly rule over them.

“And of course,” Zeku says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “you would never be able to get him to do what you want.” He arches an eyebrow at her. “Or are you trying to tell me you couldn’t.”

Miryam presses her lips together. She hates the direction where this conversation is going, and she hates it even more that the way Zeku asked the question allows only one answer. Of course she could influences choices Drakon makes if she truly insisted on something. But she is sure that he could also influence her choices. It’s called _trust_ , and part of that trust is believing that any advice the other gives is genuine and not manipulation.

“I wouldn’t,” she says.

“So it all comes down to what you would and wouldn’t do.” Zeku smiles bitterly. “I’m sure you see the problem people might have with that. You married into the Continent’s oldest royal family, effectively put yourself in charge of an entire country.” He shakes his head. “If you wanted to prove to the world that you’re trying to set yourself up as leader of the Continent, you couldn’t have done a better job.”

\----

“What did Zeku want?” Drakon asks when Miryam returns to the council chamber.

He spent most of the time she was gone sticking close to Andromache and pretending to be involved in their conversation, which is a sure strategy to avoid people trying to start conversations with him. Normally, there are a few other councilmembers he can safely talk to, but today, they all look at him strangely. It’s like they are angry with him over something, but he can’t quite figure out _why_. Maybe not inviting any of them to the wedding was a bigger insult than Miryam assumed. Perhaps he should apologize.

“Later,” Miryam says softly. She seems distracted, keeps scanning the room over his shoulder. “When we are alone.”

Drakon nods. From how tense Miryam’s posture is, whatever news she received weren’t good, but a room crowded with so many Continental leaders is probably the worst place to talk about it.

“I need to go to the Callian Pass,” he says. “See if Sinna needs help with anything, make sure that the soldiers are settling in alright.” He takes Miryam’s hands. “You probably need to speak to Jurian now?”

Miryam nods. “I don’t want him to hear about us from anyone else.”

“Then I’ll ask one of our soldiers to take you there. And maybe you can come to the Callian Pass afterwards? So that we can announce our marriage to the soldiers together.”

Speaking of their marriage still feels strange. They have been together for such a short time, thinking of Miryam as his wife will take some getting used to.

“Of course.” Miryam smiles. “Then we’ll – “

“If I may interrupt for a moment, Your Highnesses,” Shey says from behind them. From the look Miryam gives him, Drakon is nearly certain that the interruption was not exactly polite.

“What is it?” Miryam asks. _That_ was most certainly impolite.

Shey hands her a letter. “Apparently, Kehne is considering leaving the Alliance. They requested your presence to discuss.”

Drakon frowns. Kehne is a small country in the north of the Continent with little importance to larger political decisions. Its King, Johno, wasn’t there for today’s meeting, but Drakon thought little by it. Not ever councilmember if there for every meeting. (He himself only started regularly going a few months ago, and Jurian hardly ever turns up for meetings anymore.) But if Johno is really considering leaving the Alliance…

“Why would he do such a thing when we are only months away from winning this war?” Miryam asks.

Drakon is asking himself the same thing. Besides, Kehne is closer to Erithia when it comes to political leanings. Drakon doesn’t know King Johno, but his daughter and heir is only a few decades older than Drakon and they met a few times at university.

“The letter did not say. It is possible this is simply an attempt to negotiate better conditions for when the war is over.” Shey shrugs. “I suppose you’ll have to find the details out for yourself.”

“Isn’t Kehne your trading partner?” Miryam glances down at the letter, then back up at Shey. “Perhaps you should be the one to deal with them.”

“They requested you specifically.” Shey gives her a small smile and shakes his head. “Unless you want it to become known that the Alliance lost a member because its leader was…” He nods to Drakon. “… _otherwise engaged_ and refused to go deal with them.”

Miryam tenses even further. Drakon may know very little about the details of Continental politics, but he does know that Miryam can’t prioritize private dealings over the good of the Alliance. And he understands Miryam well enough to know that she would never do anything that could endanger the war.

“Should I cover for you with…” He pauses, glances at Shey. Is it public knowledge that Miryam has not yet spoken to Jurian? “With what you had planned to do?”

Miryam straightens and shakes her head. “No, I’ll do it myself after I’m done with Kehne.” She stands up on her toes to kiss him. “Good luck with the Callian Pass.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Miryam smiles and, with a curt nod to Shey, walks off. Drakon wants to follow after her, but Shey steps grips his arm.

“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to marry her,” he says. His tone is light, like he is making some kind of joke, but hiss eyes are sharp as shards of ice.

Drakon blinks. “I don’t see how that’s stupid,” he says. In hindsight, it probably isn’t the most intelligent reply to give, but even beyond the first surprise, he cannot think of any reason for why marrying Miryam would be _stupid_.

“Of course you don’t,” Shey says with a small smile and a hint of irony in his voice. “Well, regardless, you probably ought to be careful around General Jurian.”

Drakon was just about to excuse himself, but pauses at that. The thought of Jurian finding out about the marriage is indeed unsettling, but not for the reasons Shey is implying. Drakon isn’t scared of Jurian, he’s scared of how the news might hurt him.

“After what he did to Clythia,” Shey continues, “you should probably consider reinforcing your guard.”

“What do you mean, _what Jurian did to Clythia?_ ” Drakon tries and fails not to sound nervous. He certainly isn’t scared of Jurian, and Shey is an idiot for implying it, but he worries _for_ him. In his experience, anything that involves Clythia is bad news.

“You haven’t heard?” Shey shakes his head. “You should replace your spymaster, Prince.”

As far as Drakon knows, he doesn’t have anyone spying on Jurian. (Unless Sinna went against his wishes and sent spies behind his back, that is.) Why would he spy on his friend?

Before Drakon can decide if he wants to wait around for Shey to answer or find a more pleasant source of information, Andromache steps up next to him, giving Shey the barest nod.

“Interesting conversation?” She asks with more than a hint of sharpness in her voice. She likes Shey as little as Miryam does and usually tries far less to conceal it.

“I was just telling Prince Drakon about how Jurian murdered Clythia,” Shey says, tone far too smug.

“What?” Andromache asks. “Jurian killed Clythia?”

Drakon remains silent. He can’t claim to be particularly shocked by the news. As far as he knows, it was always Jurian’s end goal to eventually get rid of Clythia. It is strange a strange coincidence that he did so on the day Miryam and Drakon married, but Miryam did mention that he was acting strangely yesterday. Perhaps he couldn’t take the game he played with Clythia anymore, finally wanted to bring him to an end.

“He didn’t just kill her,” Shey says. “He spiked her to an ash cross and took his sweet time taking her apart. Left her corpse for Amarantha to find once he was done.”

Something cold settles in Drakon’s stomach. Jurian couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have tortured anyone, not even a Loyalist commander. Killed them, yes. But not this, not Jurian. Drakon barely hears what Andromache says to Shey, but he assumes it is some kind of excuse because she pulls Drakon out of the meeting chamber a moment later.

In the corridor outside, she looks around then says softly, “I need to go speak to Jurian. If this is true, Amarantha won’t stop until she killed him. I need to make sure he stays safe and doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Drakon nods. His stomach is twisting in an entirely unpleasant manner. Part of it is worry, but there’s also something else.

He can’t stop imagining it. What Jurian must have done. He knows Clythia is one of the last people he should be pitying, and he _doesn’t_ , but he can’t stop himself from imagining it. It’s not even about Clythia, but about the fact that it was Jurian who did it.

“That means you need to deal with the council,” Andromache says.

“I can’t,” Drakon says immediately. His stomach is still twisting. He feels sick.

“Well, you have to, because I will be busy with Jurian,” Andromache says, voice tense. “It won’t be that difficult, really. You just have to ease their minds a little. And I doubt the fuss will be big.”

Drakon shakes his head. He starts drumming around on his leg, tries to focus only on the rhythm and not on the thoughts running through his mind. Not to think of burning hot iron and small, vicious knifes. He doesn’t want to think about what it feels like to be burned and cut and for the pain to never end.

“I can’t,” he repeats.

Now, Andromache is annoyed. “Oh, come on, it isn’t that difficult,” she snaps. “I know you don’t like it, but this is an emergency.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Drakon’s fingers are shaking now and he keeps messing up the rhythm he is trying to drum. “I can’t… You _know_ why I can’t…”

Andromache frowns at him for a moment, then, understanding dawns on her face. “Shit,” she mutters. “I’m sorry. Are you…”

“I’m fine,” Drakon says, although he really isn’t. Maybe Miryam is rubbing off on him. “It’s stupid. I know it isn’t the same, I’m not trying to compare, I just…” He just can’t stop imagining it. “Just give me a minute.”

He turns away from Andromache while he tries to compose himself. Takes a deep breath and focuses only on the rhythm he’s drumming for a moment. It’s fine, it’s all good, nothing is happening to him. What Jurian did to Clythia is nothing like what happened to him.

Besides, he doesn’t even know _what_ Jurian did. It’s entirely possible Shey exaggerated the situation to cause this exact reaction. For all he knows, Jurian never even tortured Clythia. And even if he did… As far as Drakon is concerned, torture is never _excusable_ , but what Jurian did is still nothing like what the Loyalists of even some members of the Alliance do. If he snapped under the pressure – after years and years of watching his friends die, of fighting against monsters who want to enslave him and his people – he deserves to be _helped_ , not demonized.

If what Shey says is true, if Jurian was truly capable of doing this, he must be faring worse than even Miryam guessed. They should have tried harder to help him, or maybe truly gotten him away from the war for a while. And now, Amarantha will be after him. She might have hated him before, but if he truly murdered her sister…

Drakon turns back to Andromache. “I’ll go speak to Jurian. Then you can deal with the council.”

Andromache frowns. “You?” She asks. “Are you sure this is smart? Because last I checked, the two of you didn’t exactly get along, and I doubt you marrying Miryam will have changed anything about it.”

Drakon flinches slightly. He has forgotten about that detail. And with Miryam off on a diplomatic mission, she won’t be able to break the news to Jurian. Besides, they haven’t spoken in almost a year, and their last conversation lasted barely a minute. Drakon desperately hopes it will go better this time.

“I…” Drakon hesitates. “I won’t tell him.” Not when Miryam explicitly said that she wanted to be the one to do it, and not when he so desperately needs Jurian willing to listen. “And if you have to stay here to deal with the council, I’m the only one who has a chance of getting Jurian to listen.” At least as long as Miryam is gone.

“And what are you going to say?” Andromache asks.

“Your army is stationed close to his, right?” Drakon asks. “If I convince him to allow your armies to join camps, it would offer additional security. And you could make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Andromache purses her lips. She seems dissatisfied with the solution, but in the end, she nods. “Alright,” she says. “Good luck.”

\----

Jurian’s army is ready. The patrols are doubled, everything is on high alert. They have their camp fortified, have chosen the perfect position to defend themselves. When Amarantha attacks, they will have every advantage.

Now, all that’s left to do is wait with bated breath for Amarantha to arrive. Because Jurian is certain that she will come. After what he did to her sister, she will want his head – and he is convinced that the day she comes to get it will be her last.

The first Fae to turn up in his camp isn’t Amarantha, though.

Jurian sighs and leans against the stake he was just ramming into the ground to form a fourth line of defences. “What do you want, Drakon?”

The Prince is stepping from one foot another in the dirt. His white wings are tugged in closely to his body, the tips of the feathers trembling slightly. He seems nervous – as he has every right to be, considering how their last conversation went.

“Can we talk?” Drakon asks.

Jurian is inclined to say no and return to his work. He doesn’t want to talk to Drakon, certainly not about what he did to Clythia, since he is sure that this is what the conversation will likely be about.

“Why isn’t Miryam here?” He asks. “I assumed she would be the one to come.”

It’s usually Miryam who gets stuck with dealing with him whenever he does something the council doesn’t like. Besides, she promised she’d come visit today. They said they would talk. Then, he’ll be able to explain why he had to kill Clythia, that as soon as Amarantha is gone, too, everything will become better.

“She’s stuck on a diplomatic mission,” Drakon says. He started drumming a quick rhythm on the side of his leg and shoots a look at the soldiers around them. “Can we go somewhere more private?”

Jurian rolls his eyes and passes his stake on to the soldier next to him. “I don’t have much time, though,” he says. “Amarantha can attack any moment.” Together, they walk over towards the centre of the camp. “So, let me guess,” Jurian says. “You are here to tell me how absolutely horrible and unforgivable it was for me to do what I did to Clythia.”

Drakon shakes his head. “No, I wanted to – “

“So you don’t think it’s horrible?” Jurian asks. Drakon looks away. _Gotcha._ “You don’t think what I did was as bad as what the Loyalists do?”

“I don’t think that,” Drakon insists. He actually seems genuine. Maybe he has gotten better about lying in the time they haven’t seen each other.

Jurian snorts. “Of course you don’t.”

Because there’s no way Drakon could ever understand what he had to do. How could he? He never understood that sometimes, you need to _do what it takes_. Even if it’s ugly. If everyone in the Alliance was like Drakon, they would have lost the war years ago. It’s people like Jurian and Miryam that will win them this war. So why would he care what Drakon thinks of him, of what he did?

“You don’t get to judge me,” he says.

“I wasn’t judging,” Drakon says. He doesn’t even get sharp. Why can’t he ever snap back at anyone? Doesn’t he understand how infuriating this is? “But if you killed Clythia, Amarantha will be after you. You’re in danger and – “

Jurian takes a quick step towards Drakon, making him flinch back. Jurian lets out a joyless laugh. Taunting him is far too easy. “Scared?” He asks.

Drakon squares his shoulders. “Of course I’m not scared of you.”

“Of course not. Just like you are completely fine with my killing Clythia, right?”

He just wants Drakon to admit it. Why can’t he just be upfront and say that he hates what Jurian did? Then Jurian could call him an idiot who doesn’t understand anything and they would be done with it.

“You heard what I did to Clythia, didn’t you?” He asks and stops walking to look at Drakon. “That I dosed her with ground ash wood and spiked her to an ash cross?”

Drakon takes a step backwards. “Don’t do this,” he says softly. (On another day, the tone in his voice might have made Jurian pause, might have made him reconsider, but today, he barely listens and certainly doesn’t _think_.)

“But that wasn’t enough to send a proper message,” Jurian continues. He doesn’t even know why he’s doing this. He isn’t proud of what he did, it was just what was necessary. “You remember what Tia looked like after Amarantha was done with her, don’t you? Well, I made sure Clythia looked worse.” He smiles humourlessly. “Can you imagine how she screamed when – “

“Yes,” Drakon snaps, cutting him off. Now, he does sound sharp, far sharper than Jurian ever heard him. “I can imagine perfectly well, as you know.”

Jurian blinks. It takes him a moment to understand, to remember. A dark cell under Ravenia’s palace, the way Drakon looked, hanging limply from the ceiling.

And just like that, it’s like the time turned back by a few years. Jurian is back in that cell, trying to comfort Drakon. Back in their camp, some other day, yelling at him for stepping in front of an arrow meant for Jurian. And suddenly, he remembers that they were _friends_. Ready to kill and die for each other. What happened to change that?

“Drakon,” he whispers and reaches out for him. Drakon turns his head away. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s alright,” Drakon says, although it’s clear from the look on his face that it isn’t. He looks like he might throw up.

“I’m sorry,” Jurian whispers.

It’s his own fault, really. He wanted a reaction, and now he has it. Just not the one he wanted. He can’t stop thinking of that damned dungeon, of the Fae who tortured Drakon for Ravenia. But he isn’t like that. Not at all, what he did was completely different.

“You don’t think…” Jurian swallows. “I didn’t enjoy it, you know I didn’t. But I had to do this, Drakon. I just couldn’t catch Amarantha and making her angry was the only way. And she did the same to Tia and the others, her and Clythia both. I just…” Payed them back, he wants to say, but that will just make it sound worse. He shakes his head, hectically runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not like them, you know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know that,” Drakon says softly. He sighs. “I won’t claim that I like what you did,” he says, “but I don’t hate you for it. And while I don’t think I’ll ever understand why you felt it was necessary to…” He makes a vague gesture. “I at least understand that I probably _can’t_ ever fully understand the position you’re in in this war.”

Jurian isn’t sure why hearing this is such an immense relief. He _knows_ that what he did was necessary, he shouldn’t need Drakon’s absolution. He knows that it doesn’t make him like the Loyalists. He shouldn’t need anyone to confirm this to him, least of all Drakon.

“Yes,” he says. “And you’ll see, it will all work out. I know my methods were… unfortunate, but once I’ve defeated Amarantha, it will all turn out to be alright.”

Drakon seems doubtful, but Jurian doesn’t care. He’ll see. And maybe then, things between them will become better as well. The reasons for their falling-out seem so ridiculous now – come to think of it, it was also Amarantha’s fault, in a way. Once she is gone, it will all become better.

“About that,” Drakon says and Jurian tenses. “I actually came here to suggest it might be good to reinforce your army a bit if you truly mean to beat Amarantha. My soldiers are busy elsewhere, but Andromache could come.”

Jurian frowns. The offer is good, more soldiers are always better, but he hasn’t had a co-commander in a while. Not since Miryam, and even with her, there were difficulties. He is sure she only wanted to help, but she kept interfering with his military decisions especially when it came to Amarantha, and he can’t have anything like this happening again.

“My army is ready,” he says. “I think we can make do without help.”

“But wouldn’t it be better to be sure?” Drakon asks. He seems worried, which is actually quite nice of him, even if it is unnecessary. “To prepare for any surprises Amarantha might have prepared.”

Jurian really doesn’t think he needs the additional support, but maybe, Drakon has a point. Either way, Andromache has experience leading soldiers. Unlike Miryam, she will likely understand necessary military choices.

“Fine,” he says. “Then tell Andromache to get her soldiers over here as soon as possible. I’ll make sure there’s room for them.”

\----

Looking back, it was probably the smarter choice for Andromache to be the one to deal with the council. She guessed that the news of what Jurian did to Clythia might cause trouble, but she never expected it to be this bad. The council is in upheaval and Andromache cannot for the life of her understand _why_. She isn’t exactly fond of what Jurian did herself, but everyone else seems to be blowing it ridiculously out of proportion.

“I say we remove him from the council,” one of the Fae councilmembers suggests. “His behaviour has long since been a problem, but now, he has really crossed the line.”

“If that was crossing the line, this council would probably lose a quarter of its members,” Nakia snaps. She is annoyed at being dragged into a second meeting in one day and has been showing it ever since the meeting started. (Even beyond tradition, there is a reason why Andromache is in charge of politics and Nakia of the military, not the other way around.) “Starting with the Night and Autumn Court.”

The High Lords in question glare at Nakia, and many of the others seem equally displeased. Andromache sighs. Ten minutes into the meeting and she already misses Miryam.

“You can hardly compare what Jurian did to questioning prisoners for information,” Shey says. “This was disgusting, and it was inexcusable. There have to be consequences.”

Andromache searches for Zeku’s gaze, hoping he might help her, but the Grand Duke avoids her eyes. Great. Simply great. She presses her lips together. To resolve this problem in a way that doesn’t deepen the lines running through the Alliance, they would need Miryam, who seems to be the only one who is capable of getting this council to listen to reason. But Miryam isn’t here, and probably won’t be for hours.

Andromache can’t help but think that Shey might have sent her away on purpose.

“Aren’t you blowing Jurian’s actions a bit out of proportion?” She asks. “Let’s not forget that Clythia was not opposed to using torture on enemies and any humans she got her fingers on herself. She was a commander for Hybern as well as a slave-owner. I, for one, cannot say that I feel particularly bad about what happened to her.”

“I’m surprised to see you defending torture,” Shey says, blue eyes narrowing to slits.

Andromache levels a flat look at him. “It’s not torture I’m defending.”

“Good. Because considering that your little faction pressed for action against commanders who allowed imprisoned enemy soldiers to be tortured more than once already, that would be quite hypocritical of you.” He gives her a small smile, the kind that seems pleasant but is clearly a taunt. “Or are you others just going along with Miryam’s stance on torture?”

Andromache knows she shouldn’t play along. If she reacts now, she will only create more rifts in this council. Miryam would probably let the comment slide. But Andromache simply cannot leave it unanswered.

“Hypocrisy,” she says, “is my exact problem in this situation.” She looks around the table. “Why is it that all of Miryam’s attempts to actually enforce the ban on torture in the Alliance have only ever been met with indifference, yet now, a single instance warrants a full council meeting?” She shakes her head. “The Night Court armies torture prisoners, as do the Autumn Courts’, and no one ever batted an eye.” She turns back to Shey. “Even your soldiers, Emperor, have tortured prisoners more than once. Where was your enragement _then_?”

She really should not be doing this. It is an open secret that even in the Alliance, many of the Fae care little for humans and only barely see them as equals. The humans tolerate it as long as they still offer their armies, and usually don’t call attention to it. Andromache’s actions now go against that unspoken rule. Miryam would not like it.

Shey glares dagger at her. “I did not approve of their actions,” he says, tone clipped, “but they were not members of this council.”

“If you say you did not approve but still allowed it to continue,” Andromache pushes, “does that mean you were powerless to stop it.”

Shey’s yaw tightens. “No,” he snaps. “But we were at war. There were more important things to consider.”

“So you did not care,” Andromache summarizes. “And if you did not care then but do now, I can only conclude that it is not the torture that enrages you, but the fact that it was a human torturing and killing a Fae noble.”

Now, the entire table is staring at her. A few Fae shift around on their chairs, Nakia nods with approval. Zeku glares at her.

Andromache idly wonders how much trouble she just caused. Many Fae members of the Alliance aren’t actually so far away from the Loyalists in their mindset, but they certainly like to _pretend_ they are better. Calling attention to the fact that they are not causes only trouble, and Andromache can’t help but feel that she just made Miryam’s job to hold the Alliance together a lot harder.

\----

Miryam is annoyed. Annoyed enough that even the beauty of Kehne’s royal palace can’t change anything about it, which is saying quite a bit, because the palace is truly beautiful. It’s carved from ice, walls and towers shimmering blue in the sunlight. Normally, Miryam would not have been able to stop staring, but today, all she can think about is that she shouldn’t be here. She should be talking to Jurian, not dealing with some minor royal who got it into his mind to pressure the council into giving him more power.

King Johno greets her at the entrance to the great hall. Miryam inclines her head. “Majesty. Thank you for receiving me.”

“Thank you for coming, My Lady,” Johno says. He seems tired, face drawn, but he offers her a smile. “May I invite you to lunch?”

Lunch is the last thing Miryam cares about right now. She needs to speak with Jurian, or at least decide on what she will say to him. She needs to come up with a way out of the political nightmare she landed herself in – she hasn’t even managed to tell Drakon about that yet, damnit, she should have found time to tell him. And somewhere in between, she still has to do her day-to-day work with the Alliance, which she has been falling behind on lately. What she absolutely does not have time for is eating lunch with some dissenting noble whose tiny army only barely makes a difference in the scope of a Continent-wide war.

“It would be my pleasure,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to try Kehnese food for ages. I hear it’s delicious.”

Johno’s smile falters slightly, and he quickly turns around. “This way, please. I’ve had lunch prepared in a private meeting room.”

Miryam follows him through the halls of the palace. As they walk, he keeps pointing out artworks to her. He talks almost without pause, only occasionally waiting for Miryam to nod or hum in agreement. Normally, it is considered somewhat impolite for only one person to talk the entire time, but today, Miryam is content with not having to put any effort in the conversation.

As soon as this stupid meeting is over, she will have to go find Jurian. If she is lucky – which admittedly doesn’t happen often – he won’t have heard about the wedding yet. Then she will get a chance to explain and this time, she will start out with what she has come to say right away. If –

Johno pulls open a door at the end of the hallway and motions for Miryam to enter. Inside, a long table has been laid out. Miryam expected to be alone with Johno, but a few courtiers are seated around the table, engaged in vivid conversation. They pause when Miryam enters with their king.

Once the introductions are over, Johno points Miryam to a seat at the head of the table and sits down opposite her. Miryam smiles at the servant who pours her a glass of blue wine, then turns to Johno, who has raised his glass.

“Let’s drink to the Alliance,” he says, “and to swift victory.”

It seems like a strange thing to drink to, considering the reason for this meeting, but Miryam raises her glass nonetheless. “To victory,” she says and takes a polite sip.

The wine tastes unusual, sparkling and clear. Something about the taste reminds her of cold water and ice shimmering on the mountains. Still, she takes only a small sip. She never much enjoyed alcohol or being drunk, and she has no idea how strong this drink is, so it’s better to be careful

“Your daughter won’t be joining us today?” Miryam asks. She knows the other woman briefly from Alliance meetings where she occasionally represents her father. “I was hoping to meet her again.”

“I’m…” Johno clears his throat. “I’m afraid she is busy elsewhere today. But she sends her regards.” He gives her a nervous smile, then turns his attention to his plate.

Miryam hardly knows Johno well, but she doesn’t remember him being quite this skittish. Maybe he already regrets his political power play. If that’s the case, it’s all the better for Miryam. All she’ll have to do is offer him a way out without losing his face, and she’ll be able to return to the Alliance with an easy victory. It might even be enough to somewhat restore her standing.

Servants arrive with plates, offering a snow-white fish and some orange vegetable Miryam doesn’t know as well as green mushrooms. The smell makes Miryam’s stomach lurch. She was at least somewhat hungry until a moment ago, but now, the thought of eating makes her feel sick. She looks around for a glass of water, but finds none. Hesitantly, she takes another sip of the wine.

Speak to Jurian, find a way out of this mess she ended up in. She’ll have to think of a strategy for damage control with the Alliance before these suspicions the other members have against her destroy her position. Or destroy _her_. Normally, she would ask Zeku for advice, but he’s angry with her for marrying Drakon and she doesn’t know if he will help her now. He certainly didn’t offer.

She is so damn tired. A total of six hours of sleep in the past three days is beginning to take its toll. Her head is swimming and focusing is becoming harder.

“How are you enjoying the wine?” Johno asks politely.

“It’s very good, Majesty” Miryam says and drinks a bit more to emphasize. She would really rather have water, but maybe it’s against etiquette here to offer it with meals. “So, regarding the reason for this meeting,” she says. “May I ask what has caused you to contemplate leaving the Alliance?”

“Well,” Johno begins, smile fading. He takes a bite from his fish, as if to buy himself time. Miryam realizes she still hasn’t touched her food, but her stomach rebels at the very idea. “I’m afraid I have some concerns regarding the way this Alliance is being run,” he continues.

She frowns. Concerns with how the Alliance is run sounds like there’s a problem with _her_. If that’s a case, and if it becomes public, it might just make her problems even worse. She needs to tread carefully now. But her mind is strangely fuzzy, moving far too slowly and she has a hard time forming a coherent thought. This goes far beyond normal tiredness.

But she didn’t drink that much, did she? Unless this wine is insanely strong, there’s no way she should be drunk. Damnit, this is exactly why she hates alcohol.

“And may I ask what kind of concerns?” She asks, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear her head. It doesn’t work.

“Is the fish not to your liking, Lady?” Johno asks instead of answering her questions. Something about the way he looks at her is off, but she can’t quite place it.

Miryam makes herself smile. “Oh, I’m afraid the conversation simply distracted me from eating.”

Now, she really has to eat something. She picks up her fork, but it is shaking in her fingers. The table is swimming in front of her eyes and sweat beads at her temple. What is wrong with her?

“I’m…” she begins, but the ground shifts under her feet and she drops the fork. She needs to get out of this room, now, before she throws up all over the table. “I’m sorry,” she manages, “I’m not feeling well. May I excuse myself?”

She only barely manages to get to her feet, and once she’s standing, she has to grip the back of her chair for support. It’s like she’s standing on the deck of a ship caught in a hurricane. Getting to the door seems impossible. Strangely enough, neither Johno nor any of his courtiers make a move to help her. They merely look at her.

“I’m sorry,” Johno says, still sitting on his chair at the other side of the table.

Why is he apologizing? It’s not his fault that… Pain shoots through Miryam, making her double over. This isn’t the alcohol.

She reaches for her power, but it slips from her grip. She tries to take a step towards the door, but her legs give out from under her and she stumbles. Desperate, she reaches for the chair for support, but she misses it and then, she’s falling. She doesn’t even feel herself hitting the ground anymore.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: Mentions of torture in the entire chapter (no descriptions of any kind, though). It's lighter than in canon, though.

## Chapter 47

It has been sixteen hours. Sixteen hours since Miryam vanished. At least that’s the estimation. They don’t know for sure, since it took them hours to even notice something was wrong. Drakon spent the entire afternoon at the Callian Pass, assuming that Miryam was simply stuck in negotiations. He only got suspicious when he still hadn’t received word from her by sunset, and from there, it took another couple of hours to get the Alliance to even look into it. By the time they finally received word that King Johno had betrayed them to the Loyalists, Miryam was long gone.

“What do you mean, _you can’t do anything_?” Drakon asks, looking incredulously around the table. It took him two hours to even get a council meeting, and now, no one seems to be inclined to help him.

“There is precedent,” one of the other Fae says with cool aloofness. “This council does not sent out troops to save prisoners. You ought to know this, Prince.”

Of course Drakon knows. You get caught, you’re on your own. Your family and friends might negotiate your safe return, but there will be no military action. But Drakon also knows that he was the highest-ranking Alliance member to ever get captured, and that there’s a huge difference between choosing not to save _him_ and doing the same with Miryam.

“But Miryam is the _leader of this Alliance_ ,” Drakon says. “We can’t just let her die.”

It’s impossible. Completely impossible. They wouldn’t… Without Miryam, there would be no Alliance, no war. And he may not understand a whole lot about politics, but he does understand that this council _needs_ Miryam. Without her, they would have torn each other to shreds years ago already.

“There are no exceptions,” Shey says.

Nakia gives him a cold look. “That’s completely unacceptable.”

“I’d have to agree,” Andromache says. She nods to the other human councilmembers. “I believe we all do.”

Looks are exchanged across the table. Even Drakon notices the growing dissent between humans and Fae. They would need Miryam to help ease the tensions, but Miryam isn’t there. And Drakon can’t quite shake the feeling that if the Fae now choose to let her die, the humans might interpret it as them turning against the alliance, against them.

“My spies report that Amarantha brought her to the Heseia Fort,” Zeku says.

Drakon bites back a curse. Carved into a mountain, it has been known to outlast even the longest of sieges. It would take thousands of soldiers to stage a big enough attack that they might have a chance to get Miryam out in the ensuing chaos. Sinna with the entire Erithian army would likely be able to do it, but that would mean abandoning the Callian Pass.

“We’d lose many soldiers,” Zeku adds.

Drakon slowly shakes his head. Zeku is one of Miryam’s closest allies, he should be speaking out in favour of helping her. Instead, he abandons her, leaves her to be killed by Amarantha.

The accusation must have been clear in his eyes, because Zeku looks directly at him. “I am truly sorry,” he says.

Drakon doesn’t want his pity. He wants this council to stop arguing and start thinking of ways to save Miryam.

But they don’t help. For all that most of the human councilmembers complain, for all that they make their displeasure known, no one seems to care. Drakon and all the humans present vote in favour of acting, but with both Jurian and Miryam missing and most of their Fae allies (Zeku among them) abstaining, they don’t have enough votes on their side. Most of the Fae don’t even seem sorry.

Nakia jumps to her feet, face tight. “You’ll regret this yet,” she snaps at no one in particular and storms out of the room.

Andromache seems inclined to follow after her, but remains seated. Slowly, the meeting begins to disperse, some councilmembers leaving, others remaining to talk amongst themselves. Drakon remains seated.

They aren’t going to help. They will just let Miryam die. And with his army stuck at the Callian Pass, Drakon’s hands are tied.

Miryam will die. Amarantha will kill her as revenge for what Jurian did to her sister, or she will hand her over to the other Loyalists, who will be delighted to kill the leader of the Alliance. For all he knows, she might already be dead. But no, he would know if she was dead.

Wouldn’t he? According to legend, mates are supposed to know if something happens to one of them.

He fumbles for the bond that should be between them, tries to feel it. Nomal mating bonds allow people to sense the others’ emotions, they even let them communicate mind-to-mind. But he doesn’t sense anything. Maybe Miryam didn’t go this much into detail when she forged the mating bond, or maybe he is simply too stupid to figure out how the bond works.

Miryam would find a way. If their situations were reversed, she would find a way to save him. She did find a way when he had been in Ravenia’s dungeon. But Drakon lacks her affinity for doing the impossible, as well as the considerable magical powers that would be necessary for a break-in into an enemy fort. Without his army, he has no way of getting into that fort, and his army remains stuck at the Callian Pass. It always seems to come back to that.

“Your Highness,” a voice says behind him, startling Drakon.

He hadn’t realized everyone else gotten up by now, making him the only one still sitting at the table, and he didn’t notice Shey approaching. The emperor looks polished as always, his face a perfectly neutral mask that doesn’t betray a hint of emotion save for the occasional hint of annoyance, anger, or boredom.

“I wanted to offer my condolences,” he says. “I hope you know that there’s nothing personal about my voting against trying to free Miryam. I pray for her save return.”

“Sure you do,” Drakon mutters. He is distantly aware that he should not be doing this, that his emissary and his political advisors will likely be losing their minds, but he is too drained to care.

“How am I to understand that?” Shey challenges.

“You want Miryam dead,” he says bitterly. “Maybe you even knew what King Johno was planning when you told her she had to be the one to go to Tehne.”

“I’m sure you do not mean to imply what you were just implying,” Shey says. He offers Drakon a thin smile. “So I will kind enough to see this comment as your grief speaking and not take offense.”

Drakon stares back at him for a moment, wishing desperately he knew some way to throw his faked friendliness back in his face. But he doesn’t know how, and even if he did, Shey is a far bigger player than he is in Continental politics. He’d be mad to start this fight. So Drakon ducks his head and nods, hating himself for giving in.

“You’ll excuse me,” he says, rising to his feet.

He can’t quite bring himself to apologize, even though he knows the rules would demand it. It doesn’t matter, anyways. They’ll just jot it down as him being terrible at politics. Without sparing Shey another look, he turns around and stalks out of the room. Andromache intercepts him at the door.

“We have a problem,” she says softly and promptly pushes him into the nearest room. Once the door is safely closed behind him, she hands Drakon a letter. The seal is already broken and Drakon slowly unfolds the paper.

_Jurian,_

_You may find I’m not the only one who was careless with their belongings. If you wish to have yours back, come to the Heseia Fort. You have a day. Should you decide not to come, I’ll see if I can make your little mortal much scream loudly enough that you hear her all the way to your camp._

Drakon slowly lowers the letter. His mind is full of screaming. Part of him wants to damn the orders to hell, take his army and get Miryam out no matter the cost. But he knows he cannot do it. The Pass is too important, and while losing it might not cost them this war, it would certainly prolong it.

He knows what Miryam would want him to do, what he has to do. It still tears him apart that he can’t help her.

“We should…” Drakon begins, but his voice sounds far too rough. He clears his throat and starts over. “We probably shouldn’t show this to Jurian.”

Andromache nods. “We’ll need to tell him _something_ , though,” she says.

\----

Miryam is caught in a haze of pain. She isn't truly sleeping, but she isn't awake either. All around her, the world is black, darkness pressing in on her like a wet banket. She struggles against its hold, but it doesn’t let go. Time loses all meaning, there is no longer a difference between days and hours and seconds.

Something cold slams into Miryam and the darkness shatters. She gasps for air, and suddenly, she is awake, is lying on a rough stone floor. Water is running over her face, wet hair falls into her eyes. She tries to push herself up, but her arms give out from under her and she slides back to the floor.

Then, the pain registers and Miryam groans, doubling over. Her body is burning, her insides seem to be twisting around themselves. She gasps, trying hard not to sob in pain.

"You're alive," a rough voice says from behind her. "Good."

Miryam twists around. Around her wrists, shackles clink with the movement, and now, Miryam does sob. The shackles are tight enough that her wrists are already bruised and sore. It has been a while since anyone shackled Miryam like this. Desperately, she tugs at the shackles, but they won't give. She tries to reach for her power, but it doesn’t answer. Panic flares through her, turning her breathing shallow and uneven.

"I was worried the poison might have been too strong when you didn't wake up," the voice continues. "You would have been rather useless to me as a corpse."

Miryam turns further and finds Amarantha leaning against a wall mere feet away from her. The general is wearing a light leather armour, her red hair tied back in a tight braid. She looks down at Miryam like she is an insect she considers crushing under her boot.

What happened? Why is she here, how did Amarantha... Johno. But why? Why would he sell her put to the Loyalists? It goes against every rule of Continental politics, and she hasn't done anything to him. Certainly nothing to give him reason to hate her this much.

Against her will, she starts to tremble. Amarantha's mouth twists into a smile, and Miryam forces her body to still. She has faced bigger monsters than the general and remained calm, she won't show fear now. Getting her body under control when she is in pain, chained to the ground and alone with an enemy general isn't exactly easy, but it's not like this is the first time Miryam is at the mercy of a Fae. She has managed to control herself in worse situations, she will do so now.

Slowly, her head clears. The water Amarantha apparently dumped over her head helps, although it makes her shiver in her soaked dress. Now that she's thinking straight again, she begins to notice that something about this situation is off – namely Amarantha’s oresence. If she got captured by the Loyalists, it shouldn't be Amarantha who deals with her. By all logic, she should have been brought straight to Ravenia, or at least to someone with a higher rank than Amarantha.

Quick as lightning, Amarantha pushes off the wall she was leaning against. Before Miryam can so much as flinch, she stands before her, knife in hand. Miryam doesn't move, wills her body to remain entirely still. Amarantha places the knife on her chest, just above her heart. Miryam simply stares back at her. _She will not kill me_ , she tells herself, _and I won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me afraid_.

"You should be glad that you were unconscious for so long," Amarantha says softly. "It gave me time to reconsider my plans for you." Slowly, she moves the knife up until it is resting at Miryam’s throat. One wrong move now and she is dead. There's a dangerous glint in Amarantha's eyes. Miryam isn't sure if it is hate or madness. "My original plan," she continues, "was to kill you right away. To spike you to an ash cross and make you scream for hours - days, maybe - before killing you. Everything Jurian did to my sister, I would have done to you, and then, I would have left you for him to find, like he left her for me. It would have been very poetic."

Miryam doesn't show her surprise. Jurian killed Clythia. Tortured and then killed her, unless Amarantha is exaggerating that part. She wants to shake her head. Wants to cry, or maybe laugh, but the knife is still dangerously close to her skin. She didn't get captured by the Loyalists, she got captured by Amarantha. This has nothing to do with her or with the Alliance, it is just the next act of Amarantha’s private war with Jurian. It's ridiculous, really.

"But I reconsidered," Amarantha says. "Killing you would be a waste. It might offer me momentary satisfaction, but in the long run, it would be stupid." She presses the knife more tightly against Miryam's skin, hard enough to draw blood. There’s a sting of pain, and Miryam can feel a drop running down her throat. "After all, you make a far more useful hostage."

Now, Miryam can't keep from flinching. Immediately, the knife presses in harder, and she stills. Being killed and tortured would have been bad enough, but to be used as bait – that is worse. _Don't come for me_ , she thinks at Jurian, at Drakon. As if her thoughts will somehow reach them if she only focuses hard enough. _Please don't come for me_.

Amrantha rises to her feet in a smooth motion. "I've given Jurian a day to come fetch you," she says. "After that..." Amarantha smiles, dark eyes glittering. "Well, you probably ought to start praying that someone turns up to get you before then."

\----

Drakon winnows himself and Andromache to Jurian’s camp in the early hours of the morning. The camp is still asleep, as it took Andromache’s soldiers until far into the night to settle in. Only the guards posted all around are wide awake and vigilant.

“Do you already know what you’re going to say?” Andromache asks softly as they walk from the edge of the wards towards the camp.

Drakon shakes his head. He barely had time to think about it, not when his thoughts keep circling and circling around Miryam and what might be happening to her. Besides, he highly doubts that there’s a _good_ way to tell Jurian. How is he to explain that Miryam got captured and might be killed as a consequence to his actions?

“I’ll improvise,” he says. He isn’t good at improvising.

Andromache looks inclined to say something, but before she gets the chance, Jurian appears from between two tents. He looks worse than yesterday, something Drakon didn’t think possible. His gaze seems unfocused and the shadows under them are even darker. But he smiles at them as he walks towards them. It’s the first time Drakon has seen him smile in years, and something in his chest twists at the sight. Especially when the smile fades as soon as Jurian sees the looks on their faces.

“Did something happen?” He asks. His tone is tense, but somehow resigned. Like he has grown so used to bad news that he has learned to expect them.

Drakon swallows. “Miryam got captured,” he says. “By Amarantha.”

For a moment, Jurian simply stares, frozen, as if it takes him a moment to process the words. Then, his face crumbles and he begins to shake his head.

“But…” He stumbles over the words, voice shaking. “That’s all wrong. She couldn’t have…” He shakes his head. “But why?”

That Jurian has to ask at all shows how badly he’s faring. Anyone can see _why_ , and it’s entirely unlike Jurian to miss such an obvious reasoning. But maybe he is subconsciously pushing away the truth to protect himself. Maybe a part of him knows, but he can’t stand it, so he denies the truth as long as possible.

“It’s…” Drakon begins, but doesn’t manage to finish the sentence.

Jurian is already so dangerously close to the edge. If Drakon now tells him that Miryam got captured by Amarantha because of him, might get tortured and killed because he murdered Clythia, it might push him over for good. It would certainly be another blow at a time when that’s the last thing Jurian needs. And Drakon can’t do that to him.

“It’s because of me,” he blurts out. Both Andromache and Jurian stare at him incredulously, the former catching herself quickly and schooling her face back into careful neutrality.

“Because of you?” Jurian asks. His tone has gained an edge, but his eyes are still searching Drakon’s face as if waiting for him to take the words back.

“My forces are currently in the Callian Pass,” Drakon says. He has no idea where he’s going with it. Why didn’t he think about that _before_ speaking? “So, uhm… Amarantha captured Miryam to get me to remove my forces?” He looks over at Andromache, who simply shrugs. Drakon resists the urge to grimace at her. She’s certainly being helpful. “She thinks I’ll withdraw my armies to save her,” he says. “Leave the Callian Pass unprotected."

It is possibly the worst lie Drakon ever told. None of it even makes sense. Why would Amarantha ever use Miryam to set a trap for _Drakon_ when she has no reason at all to care about him? When it was Jurian who just killed her sister.

“But you are going to get her out,” Jurian says, still staring at Drakon. “You are going to save her regardless. Right?”

He actually believes him. Jurian barely believes it. He must be truly desperate for any version of the story that places the blame away from him if he believes this lie.

“I can’t,” Drakon says softly. “We can’t lose the Callian Pass, so my army needs to remain where it is.”

Jurian’s eyes darken, his hands curl to fists. “So you are just going to let her die?”

A small part of Drakon very badly wants to point out that Jurian _also_ has an army and would be just as capable of trying to save Miryam as Drakon is. But of course, getting Jurian to rush off after Amarantha is exactly what he is trying to keep from happening.

“Miryam wouldn’t want me to – “ he begins.

Jurian shoves him backwards hard enough to make Drakon stumble backwards. He follows, arm lifted as if he wants to punch him, but Andromache grips his arm and forces it down before he gets the chance.

“Are you mad?” She snaps. “Stop it!”

Jurian tries to shake her off and fails. Over her shoulder, he snaps at Drakon, “If she dies because of you, I am going to _kill you_.”

Andromache shoves Jurian back. “You will do no such thing!” She turns around to Drakon, who still stands frozen. “I think it would be best is you left now.”

Drakon nods numbly. He can’t tear his eyes from Jurian, who stares at him like he hates him. Slowly, he turns around and walks out of the camp. A few of the soldiers look at him strangely, but he mostly ignores them. Outside of the camp, he sits down on a flat stone.

He did the right thing, he knows he did. It is better if Jurian hates him than if he hates himself. And it’s not like he will spend eternity believing the lie Drakon told. He would be surprised if it took him more than a few days to figure out the truth.

Andromache arrives a few minutes later. With a sigh, she sits down next to Drakon. “That,” she says, “was without doubt the worst lie I’ve ever heard. I hope you know that Jurian believing it can only be chalked up to wilful ignorance.”

“Yes, I know,” Drakon mutters. “I didn’t think it through.”

“It was a good idea, though.” Andromache lets out a dark laugh. “I mean, it was a completely terrible lie, but it actually worked. You probably just saved Jurian’s life.”

Drakon stares down at his feet. Today seems to be the day of him constantly being forced to make choices that are strategically and likely morally correct, but completely catastrophic on a personal level.

\----

The door to Miryam's cell bursts open and blinding light floods in. Miryam blinks as her eyes try to adjust. She has been alone in the dark cell for what she assumes was a day. No light, no food or water. Her head is spinning and the pain from the poison hasn’t entirely faded, but she is nearly certain she can stand if necessary.

Amarantha rushes into the room with all the force of an autumn storm. Where her fury was a cold, lethal thing yesterday, today, it is burning hot. Miryam remains sitting with her back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest, and calmly looks up at the general.

"No one came?" She asks, voice hoarse.

Amarantha stalks across the room and slaps her. Hard. Miryam's head snaps to the side, blood shoots out of her nose. The world starts spinning and she lets herself drop to the ground, allows herself to gasp in pain.

"I'll admit," Amarantha says, voice burning, "that I am disappointed. I assumed at least one of your lovers - which one is it you're with, anyways? - would turn up to help you. But maybe they don't care as much about you as I thought they would."

"Or maybe they're too smart to fall for your trap," Miryam whispers. She lets her voice to tremble a bit at the words.

She tries to summon a feeling of triumph. After all, she spent the past day hoping desperately that Jurian and Drakon wouldn’t come to save her. But now that they _actually_ didn’t come, she can no longer push away the knowledge that them not coming means that she will get tortured and killed.

"None of your other allies came to help you, either," Amarantha taunts. "Leader of the Alliance, and yet none of them care enough to try and save you. It's almost like they are glad to have you gone."

Miryam hates that the words sting, hates that deep down, she hoped someone would come. Expected the Alliance to care enough to save her, even though she knew it was unlikely. But no one came for her.

She will die. Likely slowly and extremely painfully. Amarantha will torture her, likely until one of her friends can't take it anymore and tries to rescue her. Which will only result in their death.

Miryam refuses to be part of that. She won't let anyone use her to harm her friends, harm the Alliance. And she refuses to die like this, slowly, painfully and on someone else's term. She may be quickly running out of choices, but she at least wants to be able to dictate the circumstances of her own death.

Amarantha gestures to two guards posted in front of the cell. To Miryam, she says, "I believe things are about to become truly unpleasant for you."

Miryam lets herself be pulled to her feet by the guards. She stays limp in their grip, forcing them to hold her by the arms to keep her from falling back to the ground.

“Move,” one of the guards snaps at her.

Miryam tries to stand up on her own feet, but her legs give out from under her. She makes a great show of only barely managing to keep up her head. (She doesn’t have to pretend to be weak as much as she would have liked to.)

“I always forget how pathetic you mortals are,” Amarantha drawls. “Drag her if you must.” With that, she turns around and stalks out of the room.

The guards do drag Miryam along, and not all too pleasantly. They walk her out of the cell and through a narrow corridor. There are small slits of windows let in the stone walls, and through them, Miryam glimpses the ground at least forty feet below. She must have been imprisoned in a tower or high up in some castle.

She slowly turns her head to survey the guards. They are both a little bigger than her, and both armed. Miryam, on the other hand, is still weak from being poisoned and locked up, and she is shackled. The odds aren’t exactly stacked in her favour, but she doesn’t have anything to lose.

Miryam waits until they reach the end of the corridor. Amarantha opens a door to a narrow stairway that leads down to what Miryam can only assume will be a torture chamber. Amarantha steps aside to allow Miryam and the guards through.

Miryam waits until they are almost at the stairs, then, she twists in their guards’ grip, slamming her elbow into the side of the left guard the way Jurian showed her to ages ago. He lets go of her, likely more out of surprise than pain. The ground is shifting under Miryam’s feet, but she manages to keep her footing as she whirls towards the second guard.

She twists her arm out of his grip. Still moving, she manages to reach for his weapon’s belt. The chains hinder her movements, but she gets hold of a knife and jumps back, weapon in hand.

“Oh, stop it,” Amarantha says. She stepped aside and doesn’t seem inclined to get involved in the struggle at all. If anything, she looks bored. “You don’t really think you’ll be able to escape, do you?”

She isn’t trying to escape.

Miryam flips the knife around and points the blade towards herself. She is about to plunge it down, but now, their guards seem to have overcome their surprise. One of them reaches for her and Miryam jumps back, narrowly avoiding his outstretched hand. When she lands, her legs give out from under her. She stumbles back, arms flared in an attempt to regain her balance and only barely manages to keep her grip on the knife.

The guard makes to grab for her again, and Miryam stumbles another step. But suddenly, there is no ground under her foot. She feels her body tilting backwards and realizes with a start that she will not be able to find her balance again now.

The world seems to slow down. With sudden clarity, Miryam remembers the stairs that were there, somewhere behind her. Remembers one of the few times she trained with Jurian, when she stumbled over a branch and he told her to always keep track of her surroundings in a fight.

Then, time returns to its normal pace. _Oh shit_ , is all Miryam manages to think before she goes tumbling down the stairs.

\----

Amarantha lets the guards scream for three hours, imagining their screams are Jurians. She would have let it go on for longer, but they die quickly like the pathetic weaklings they are. Perhaps she should have been more careful with how much she cut them up, but she was too furious to care. She wipes the blood off her hands and snaps at her torture master to select one of the slaves at random and make them scream loud enough that the entire fort will hear it. Today, she needs to hear the sounds of something dying.

By the time she stalks out of the torture chamber, one of the humans is already screaming. The sounds fails to take the edge off Amarantha's anger, though. No, the only thing that could perhaps ease her fury would be if it was Jurian screaming in that torture chamber.

He killed her Clythia. Clythia, who loved him in spite of his lesser standing, who refused to heed any of Amarantha's warnings regarding his true nature. Mortals aren't worthy of a Fae's love. They are lesser creatures, spiteful and backstabbing. Amaratha should have listened to what her instincts told her, should have killed Jurian instead of listening to her sister's pleas to spare him.

Her lovely, sweet Clythia. Slaughtered like an animal by some unworthy mortal.

Amarantha never understood what her sister saw in him. A decent general he might be, but he's still mortal, little more than an animal compared to them. Amarantha owns dogs that are good at their tasks, but she certainly wouldn't take any of them to bed.

But Clythia had so much trust in her visions that she was ready to disregard his lesser station. She loved him in spite of it. Even when she hated mortals as much as Amarantha, was as repulsed by their quest for freedom - who are these animals to demand being treated as equal to them? - even then, she was willing to make an exception for Jurian. And he killed her for it.

Amarantha will tear him apart limb by limb. Every moment of suffering he caused her sister, he will repay tenfold, and even then, they won't be close to even. But she will think of something. Clythia promised Jurian he would live forever, and Amarantha will gladly spend her eternity making his hell.

But to do that, she needs to catch him first. And thanks to the idiocy of her guards, that is now further away than it was hours ago.

She had assumed Jurian would come running the moment he got word that she had caught his little lover. Assumed he would throw caution to the wind in some misguided attempt to save the girl. But maybe he cares less for her than he thought, now that she married another – something Amarantha only found out about after she already captured her, no thanks to her incompetent spies – since he made no move to help her so far.

Still, Amarantha was sure he would come once she started working on the girl, was sure he wouldn't be able to stand her getting tortured for his deeds. (And maybe destroying something Jurian holds dear would have eased some of the pain raging in her, maybe it would have brought them closer to being even.)

But now, she can't have Miryam tortured. Instead, she had to call in a healer to make sure that stupid girl doesn't die. All because she fell down a flight of stairs. Mortals are so very breakable, she keeps forgetting about it. No Fae would ever die from falling down thirty ridiculous steps, yet her healer informed her that she can count herself lucky that the half-breed is still alive. And that she can forget about any ideas of torturing her for at least a week if she doesn't want her dead within hours.

She should have taken more time killing those guards.

"General!" A soldier calls from behind her. There's a slight quiver in his voice and his face seems pale as Amarantha turns around.

"What?" She snaps.

"Queen Ravenia is here," the soldier says. "She requests to speak to you."

Knowing Ravenia, it was likely more of an order than a request. Amarantha certainly understands the soldier's nervousness. Ravenia tends to have that effect on people. Being the most powerful person on the entire Continent will do that to you. Even though that power has been dwindling lately, largely due to the girl Amarantha currently has locked in her dungeon. Which probably explains the visit.

"I'll meet her in the courtyard," Amarantha says and the soldier hurries off.

The screams of the slave are still ringing through the fort by the time Amarantha arrives in the courtyard. If Amarantha tries hard enough, she can imagine they are Jurian's.

Ravenia stands in the centre of the courtyard, head held high, golden jewellery glimmering in the light. She looks for all the world like she owns the fort. At least she didn’t bring Artax. Amarantha already works for one witcher – that’s more than enough.

Amarantha bows. "Your Majesty. To what do I owe the pleasure?" It is no pleasure at all.

"You have something I want," Ravenia says. She snaps her fingers, making a letter appear in her hands, and holds it out to Amarantha. "You are to hand Miryam over to me. I already cleared everything with your king."

Amarantha scans the contents of the letter, then crumbles it in her hand. Her face twists with fury. "No," she says far less politely than she probably should. In the background, the screams turn more high-pitched. "I still have use for her."

Ravenia's eyes darken further. A flame flickers at her fingertips. (Amarantha wonders how often anyone told her no in her life. She is sure it hasn't happened often.)

"Miryam is leader of the Alliance," Ravenia says. "The Alliance we are currently losing this war to, in case you forgot. This might just be the biggest chance we’ll ever get to turn the tide and you are not going to squander it for your private feud with some inconsequential mortal general."

Amaratha's fury boils over. Anger rushes through her. "If you wanted to catch her so badly," she snaps, "you should have done so in the past several years. Now, it's my turn and you will _wait_."

"I will do no such thing." Ravenia gives her a withering glare. "You think anyone cares that your idiot of a sister was stupid enough to fuck a mortal and got murdered for it?"

Amarantha's hand clenches around the hilt of her sword. She has to resist the urge to draw it. Ravenia and her fucking arrogance. She has always been like this, arrogant and always so damn superior. Even now that she must realize everything is crumbling around her, she still acts all high and mighty.

"You're one to talk," Amarantha hisses. "If you had managed to control your slaves, we wouldn't even have these problems." She lets out a humourless laugh. "What does it feel like to be constantly bested by a mortal? To have one start a war against you and win." Amarantha relishes the fury that clouds Ravenia's face at the words. It’s almost as good as the screams. "The most powerful Fae in the world," she taunts, "bested by an unworthy mortal worm."

Ravenia's face turns cold, but flames dance in her eyes. For a moment, Amarantha thinks - almost hopes, really - that she will attack her. But Ravenia merely shakes her head, fury vanishing from her face like she put on a mask.

"You are to hand Miryam over," she repeats.

"Why?" Amarantha laughs again. "So we can win this war, or so you can punish her for crossing you? Because to me, it looks like the latter." She grins. "Tell me, are you upset that your would-be fiancé prefers a little mortal to you?"

The taunt is more of a guess, if Amarantha is being honest. She never quite understood Ravenia's obsession with the young prince. As far as she knows, the only interesting thing about Prince Drakon of Erithia is that people who are far more powerful than him keep taking an interest in him. Otherwise, he always seemed like a distinctly uninteresting young man from a slightly more interesting and very old family.

Ravenia's face darkens at the mention, though, either out of embarrassment or genuine annoyance at having a person she wanted choose a mortal over her. "I am giving you a direct order to hand Miryam over to me," she says sharply. Apparently, she is done playing games.

"And I’m disregarding it," Amarantha says. "She is my prisoner, and if you want her, you should have come up with a way to catch her yourself. Now kindly leave my fort, I have more important things to do."

There really is no need for her to cower before Ravenia. Why would she need to listen to a queen who can't even defeat one of her former slaves in war? No, Ravenia's age is over, gone are the times when the world danced at her command. Maybe it might have changed if she managed to win this war, and maybe handing Miryam over might bring that about.

But Amarantha doesn't care about Ravenia's power games, and she doesn't care about this war. These things lost all importance the moment Clythia died. Now, all Amarantha wants is revenge. And she will have it.

\----

Drakon stands on the highest tower of the castle that guards the Callian Pass and looks down at the army stretching out below. A brisk wind pulls at his hair and ruffles his feathers. Down below, red flags imprinted with Ravenia's crowned sun flap wildly over the camp her army erected a safe distance away from the walls.

What he sees down below isn't Ravenia's entire army, but still a large enough part of it that Drakon's soldiers are outnumbered two-to-one. The odds still aren't too bad for them. They can remain behind their walls and barricades, wards and traps, while Ravenia's soldiers will need to leave theirs behind if they want to attack. Should it come to battle, they’ll have all the advantages.

But there's still Artax to contend with, him and the second witch Ravenia sent to support her army. The Alliance sent over Helion Spellcleaver to help with that, but he already told Drakon that he will be able to do little against one witch, let alone two. Let alone Artax. Brilliant as Helion might be, it is nearly impossible for a non-witch to best one in spell work, and Artax is the most powerful witcher in the Guild. Even Miryam, Helion pointed out with a rueful smile, would likely not be able to hold out against him.

Drakon knows he should be thinking of battle, of the army before him. But no matter how hard he tries, his thoughts keep drifting back to Miryam. Amarantha’s ultimatum has run out hours ago, he _let_ it run out. That means that Miryam is likely being tortured right now and he stands here, doing nothing.

Drakon turns away from his lookout and walks back into the castle. As he passes, soldiers keep shooting him strange looks. He can basically hear them thinking about how Miryam got kidnapped less than one day after they married. They didn’t even get time to officially announce their marriage.

He is almost glad when he closes the door to his rooms behind himself. The guards that have been trailing him without pause ever since Miryam vanished remain outside.

“Anything?” He asks Sinna, who is sitting in his living room side by side with Nephelle.

They both look tired and miserable enough that he doesn’t even need the answer to his question to know they have no news. He lets himself slump on the sofa opposite them. Nephelle abandons her place next to Sinna and walks over to him, puts an arm around his shoulder as she sits down.

“She isn’t getting tortured, at least as far as I know,” Sinna says. “We have a spy inside, and he says they haven’t brought her to the dungeons.” The word _yet_ seems to ring through the room unsaid, but Drakon is still relived.

“If we have someone on the inside, can’t we use them to get her out?” He asks. The hope will likely be in vain if Sinna hasn’t brought it up yet, but at this point, he is willing to grasp for straws.

Indeed, Sinna shakes her head. “One person isn’t enough to break out Amarantha’s most valuable prisoner. It would never work, and we’d lose our only inside source.”

Drakon presses his lips together and nods, trying not to let the disappointment sting. Nephelle squeezes his arm.

“We’ll keep trying,” she says softly, but Drakon isn’t stupid enough to take the reassurance for anything but empty words.

Before either of them can say anything else, the door bursts open. Drakon flinches, Sinna immediately jumps to her feet, hand going to her sword. She doesn’t let go of it even after it’s long clear that they aren’t being attacked.

“Knocking,” she says sharply, “is generally expected before entering a room.”

Rhysand barely spares her a look before turning towards Drakon. He stalks into the room, face tight. Drakon gestures to the guards hovering in the doorway behind them and they slip out of the room.

“Hello Rhys,” he says.

“I heard what happened,” Rhys says. “I’m surprised you are still here.”

Nephelle frowns at him but remains silent. Slowly, Sinna returns to her seat, flipping over the papers she had strewn out over the table as she does. She doesn’t even try to hide that she doesn’t want him seeing the documents.

“I have orders,” Drakon says. His voice sounds flat. “It is vital we hold this pass, and the Alliance refuses to send replacements. There’s nothing I can do.”

Rhys shakes his head. He is wearing his dark armour, still splattered in mud at places, and for some reason, he lets his power flow freely. Drakon isn’t sure if he knows that this is impolite – impolite enough that even Drakon knows you shouldn’t do it. It demonstrates a lack of control at best, and is seen as an intimidation attempt at worst.

“She’s your _mate_ ,” Rhys says. “And you’re just… You’re just going to let her die? Mere days after you married?” He shakes his head. “Who cares about this stupid pass?”

Drakon lowers his eyes and begins drumming a rhythm on his leg. “I can’t risk this war,” he says. “Miryam would never forgive me.” He wouldn’t forgive himself, either. But it’s not like he’ll ever forgive himself for letting her die.

“At least she’d be alive to hate you,” Rhys snaps and Drakon thinks they might have very different ideas of what it means to respect your partner’s wishes even if they contradict your own. Or of the importance individual lives hold in comparison to the millions of lives at stake in this war.

Nephelle sighs. “Is there a reason why you’re here, Rhys, or do you just want to make everyone feel worse about necessary choices?”

Rhys winces slightly and runs a hand through his hair. His anger seems to ease slightly, although his power remains uncontrolled. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking at Drakon. “That was stupid of me. If you say you can’t do anything, you’re probably right.” He pauses. “But maybe I could…”

“Don’t even think about it,” Sinna snaps before Drakon has fully realized what Rhys is implying.

Rhys crosses his arms. “Why not? I have an army, and we aren’t defending anything vital right now.”

“Your army is too small,” Sinna says. “You won’t even make a dent in the fort’s defences. And even if you could, you don’t have the necessary skill to be able to pull it off without accidentally getting Miryam killed instead of freeing her.”

Rhys’s face tightens. “I could do it,” he says. Drakon doesn’t quite understand where he takes the confidence to doubt the assessment of a general several centuries his senior.

“Thank you for offering,” he says before Sinna can give a reply that would likely send this conversation spiralling into an argument. “I truly appreciate it. But there’s nothing you can do.”

Rhys seems to consider for a moment. Too long for Sinna’s taste, apparently, since she straightens in her seat. “You will get your soldiers killed,” she says, “each an every one of them. And Miryam on top of it, if you are unlucky.”

Still, Rhys remains silent. Only after another moment does he finally nod. “Fine.” His tone is clipped. “I should get back to my soldiers, then. I wish you good luck.”

With that, he turns around and stalks out of the room, leaving Sinna, Nephelle and Drakon to stare after him in surprise. Whatever kind of visit was this?

“Odious boy,” Sinna mutters. “I really don’t know what you see in him.”

Drakon wraps his arms around himself. “He was just worried,” he says. After all, Miryam is his friend. Not a close friend, but still.

Sinna snorts. “About what? Not being able to use Miryam’s name for protection anymore?”

Drakon shakes his head but doesn’t reply. It isn’t worth it, really. What’s the point in arguing about Rhys when Miryam is still being held prisoner by Amarantha. He leans his head against his knees.

“Are you alright?” Nephelle asks. “You aren’t going to do anything stupid, are you?”

“ _No_.” Drakon sighs and looks up. “I’ve been perfectly reasonable the entire time, haven’t I? I went to that meeting, I made sure Jurian doesn’t run off and get himself killed, I reassured my soldiers.” He shakes his head. “I’m being so fucking reasonable I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore.”

He knows what he’s doing is the right thing, knows it’s what Miryam would have wanted. But it also means that he’s choosing to let her die, and he isn’t sure if that’s a choice he can bear.

“I don’t know if this is any consolation,” Sinna says, “but I would have locked you in your rooms if you had shown any inclination for being less than reasonable.”

Drakon gives her a weak glare. “If you ever lock me up in my room, I’ll give your position to Nikine,” he says, naming Sinna’s least favourite co-general.

Sinna grins and Drakon shakes his head. It’s not like she would actually lock him up – if only because she knows that being locked up makes him uncomfortable. Still, it occurs to Drakon that conversations like this might actually be part of the reason some of the other Continental leaders believe that he isn’t actually in charge of his own country.

Nephelle rolls her eyes at their antics, but a smile has stolen itself on her face. “I’ll see if you can find us some food,” she says. “I’m sure you both forgot all about eating again.”

Drakon is the furthest thing from hungry, but he still nods, if only because he doesn’t want anyone to tell him that not eating won’t bring Miryam back. He knows, but that doesn’t change anything about the fact that the thought of eating anything makes him feel sick. He’ll have to try to at least force a few bites down.

Nephelle closes the door behind herself. Drakon looks over at Sinna.

“If it was Nephelle,” he says, “you wouldn’t just sit around and wait.”

Sinna watches him for a moment, considering. Then, she nods. “Yes, I’m afraid I might be less reasonable than you are if our situations were reversed,” she says. “But they aren’t, so I can regard these matters from an outsider’s perspective and tell you that you’re doing the right thing.”

“I know,” Drakon mutters. It just doesn’t make him feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The Amarantha pov will probably be a singular thing, but I needed it to convey certain plot informations. I hope I handled her pov okay, I don't usually write the pov of villains. Also, you might have noticed that I don't like Rhys, and while I have to include him in the next few chapters, the way I write him won't be too favourable. (It also won't bee as bad as I'd like it to be, simply because I have to write him as a person Miryam and Drakon might be friends with, but I really don't feel like making him a great person.) But he barely plays a role, anyways.


End file.
